


Three Things

by Bookboy



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Cara Dune cameo, Din Djarin backstory, Din does NOT have the Darksaber, Din is low key demi and no one makes a deal about it, Din's lack of interpersonal skills strikes again, Episode 15 & 16 rewrite, Eventual Sex, Family Fluff, Found Family Feels, Greef Karga cameo, Grogu stays, Idiots in Love, Jedi decidedly not, M/M, Migs Mayfield backstory, Migs is low key gay and no one makes a deal about it, Peli Motto cameo, Shifting perspective, Slow Burn Romance, Teen rating just for Migs in general now, The Way explained, The Way respected, an ulcer?, because what does he need?, gratuitous use of mando'a
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28810797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookboy/pseuds/Bookboy
Summary: Migs Mayfield has always had a tendency to babble. Especially when he was nervous. In one timeline, when the buff Rebel Marshal lets him go, he decides for once that discretion is the better part of valor and just goes. We all know how that story ends.In this one, a single offhanded comment changes everything.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Migs Mayfeld
Comments: 142
Kudos: 263





	1. Another Path

**Author's Note:**

> Soo... guess who finally got to watch the Mandalorian? *points at self with both thumbs*
> 
> My friend who is not a shipper but always amused at my dissection of shows for shipping opportunities asked me who I would pair with Din, and after careful consideration, I determined the only correct answer was season 2 Mayfield. They asked me to defend my answer, to which I pointed out the end of the scene in episode 15 where Din takes off his helmet and the instant the shooting was paused, the first thing Mayfield did was hand Din his helmet back and respectfully look away from his face, which can be read as like the dude equivalent of a girl in a romcom having a major wardrobe malfunction and the guy being a gentleman about it, and this happened. So I'm jumping onboard the 'showing face can also mean marriage despite there being no evidence for that in the show' bandwagon and the 'it's bullshit Grogu went with Luke at the end there' bandwagon and seeing where it takes me. 
> 
> Like all my other stories, updates will be slow. Underlined Mando'a are hyperlinks to my primary Mando'a site, hover for translations. (PS, translating some of Din's key catchphrases into Mando'a was a bit of a bitch...)
> 
> Edit 2/4/21- By popular demand, translations are now also listed at the end of every chapter.

Din stared at the helmet being held out to him and couldn’t think of a thing to say. 

“You did what you had to do,” Mayfeld insisted. “I never saw your face.” Their eyes met, holding for a moment, and something like... understanding flashed in Mayfeld’s eyes. Sympathy? His face studiously turned away, towards the door, like he was looking out for someone coming. Which someone probably was, considering the enormous ruckus they’d just made. Mayfeld didn’t understand the[ Resol'nare](https://www.mandoa.org), why he kept his face covered, Din knew he didn’t. He’d said as much. 

So why did it feel less like keeping a lookout and more like respectfully giving him space? 

Din swallowed thickly. He’d already made the decision to break the Resol'nare and followed through. He could mull over the repercussions and whether or not he was allowed to re-don his[ beskar'gam](https://www.mandoa.org) later, they didn’t have time for him to have this inner conflict right now. In the meantime, no need to make it any worse than it had to be. 

He snatched the helmet from Mayfeld’s hand and they were running. 

  
  
  
  
  


The shockwave from the seismic charge ebbed away, and the flight evened out. After a moment, Boba’s voice came over the speakers again, tinny. “All clear.” Din exhaled slowly. 

Movement from the next jump seat over caught his attention. Mayfeld had unstrapped from his seat and was moving to where Boba had stashed their gear. He grabbed his own clothes, then the bag holding Din’s beskar'gam, and held it out to him. “I don’t know about you, but I feel like I’m about to crawl out of my damn skin if I don’t get out of this uniform. Let’s get changed before we meet up with the girls.” 

Din swallowed and took the bag. It felt heavier than before. Mayfeld disappeared into the ‘fresher.

When Mayfeld reappeared, in his own clothes now, Din hadn’t moved from his seat, only pulled out the[ buy’ce](https://www.mandoa.org) from the bag and was cradling it in his hands, staring down into the familiar visor. His thoughts were a churning storm, moving too fast for him to really get a grip on any of them, but they tasted like panic. 

“...Mando?” Mayfeld called hesitantly. “Are you gonna...?”

“... I can’t.” 

“What?” 

Din’s hands clenched around the bucket. “That’s the Creed. I- I cannot allow another to see my face and live to tell it. If... if I do, I loose the right to wear it.” 

Mayfeld scoffed. “C’mon, Mando, that’s crazy. Your Creed doesn’t allow for _any_ extenuating circumstances? At all, ever? Not even to save your _kid?_ ” He dropped back down into the jump seat he had left, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “What, do you think people won’t respect you anymore or something? Look, I said I never saw anything, right? No one’s gotta know what went down. I won’t tell.” 

“That doesn’t matter,” he snapped back, harsher than he had meant to. “Covering the stain just makes it worse.” 

Mayfeld was silent for a long moment. Finally, he muttered, a little desperate, “There’s gotta be _some_ kind of exception. Besides killing me, of course, I would rather live, thanks.” 

Din’s brain stuttered to a halt. There was no possible way Mayfeld could know the significance of the phrasing he just used, but... that was a thought. 

Technically it was cheating. They didn’t have that kind of relationship. But... like Mayfeld said, no one but him needed to know that. Which was the greater sin? Lying and wearing the armor anyway, or giving up his only exception to _Mayfeld?_ Mayfeld was [ areutii](https://www.mandoa.org), didn’t understand- 

So why was he so invested in Din putting it back on? 

He tore his eyes away from his buy’ce, looking at Mayfeld. The other man’s brow was furrowed, mouth a soft frown of concern. “Why do you care if I put it back on or not?” he demanded. 

Mayfeld’s mouth twisted, his eyes dropping. “Like I said, Mando. We all gotta sleep at night.” Din waited, not looking away, silently prompting him for more. Eventually, he shrugged stiffly. “I don’t get all this face-hiding business. But I don’t gotta get it, do I? What’s important is it’s important to you. Pretty damn important, apparently, considering you’re sitting there staring at that thing like a starving man staring at food he knows he can’t afford. But you gave it up because... because I couldn’t bring myself to suck up being in the same room as a man that didn’t even recognize me for two damn minutes.” 

Din swallowed, strangely... touched. “I made the decision, Mayfeld. Not you.” 

“You wouldn’t have been in that position if I hadn’t forced you to,” Mayfeld bit back. A hand scrubbed over his head, and Mayfeld sighed. “Look. I’ve kriffed things up a lot in my life. Most of ‘em I just gotta live with. It’s... it’s really rare for me to be able to fix something I kriffed up for someone else. So c’mon, Mando.” His eyes flicked up to meet Din’s through the stormtrooper helmet’s visor again. They were blue, Din absently noticed. “Tell me there’s some kind of exception so I can fix this.” 

Slowly, Din looked back to his buy’ce. His gut churned, but his thoughts finally settled and crystalized. Areutii Mayfeld may be, but... he was a decent man. He made up his mind. 

“Yeah,” he finally admitted softly. “Yeah, there’s one.”

Mayfeld exhaled gustily, relief flooding onto his face. “Really?” 

“Yep.” Briskly, he stood, and moved to the ‘fresher. 

“Hey, uh, anything I gotta do?” Mayfeld called uncertainly after him. “Or is that it?” 

“That’s it.” Unwilling to elaborate any further, Din shut the door. 

  
  
  
  
  


When they landed, Din walked down the gangplank in his own beskar’gam once again, the thing in his gut that had been flailing and off-kilter since he put on the Imperial armor settled once again. 

“Well, it looks like it’s back to the scrap heap,” Mayfeld sighed, resigned. 

Din hesitated. Despite the clusterkriff that op had become, just sending Mayfeld back to prison seemed... wrong. He potentially owed this man his[ adika’s](https://www.mandoa.org) life now; that wasn’t a debt squared away with a simple better view or reduced sentence. It wasn’t Mayfeld’s fault he had a bad reaction to that Imp officer, there was clearly a lot of history there, just like it wasn’t Din’s fault he’d had a bad reaction of his own to being looked at square in the face. Regardless, the objective had been achieved and they were one step closer to his [ ad](https://www.mandoa.org). He wouldn’t have been able to do it without Mayfeld.

He turned to look at Mayfeld again when they stopped in the clearing, Fennec continuing to the ship while Cara stood with them. “Thank you for helping,” he offered. It was sincere, but it didn’t quite feel like enough. 

Mayfeld nodded and met his eyes. Equally understated but sincere, he returned, “Yeah. Well, good luck getting your kid back.” With a wry little smile, Mayfeld turned back to Cara and offered her his hands. “Alright, officer. Take me back.” 

Cara didn’t reach for the cuffs on her belt. Instead, she commented, “That was some nice shooting back there.” 

Mayfeld huffed a laugh, letting his hands drop. “Oh you saw that? Yeah, that uh wasn’t... part of the plan.” He shrugged. “Just getting some stuff off my chest.” 

This was wrong. But Din couldn’t make this decision. He couldn’t even ask Cara to make it; couldn’t ask her to risk everything she had managed to build up for his nebulous sense of debt to this man. Or the... other reason, but he wasn’t about to really admit that reason to himself, much less to anyone else. She was already taking a big enough risk to help him this much, he couldn’t ask this too. All he could do was stare at Mayfeld’s bitter smile. 

“You know, it’s too bad Mayfeld didn’t make it out alive back there.” He looked at Cara. Cara’s head tilted and the tiniest smile lifted the corner of her mouth. 

Something, some nameless but powerful emotion, something like gratitude, swelled in his chest.[ Ka’ra](https://www.mandoa.org), he could have kissed this brilliant, apparently telepathic woman. “Yeah. Too bad.” 

Mayfeld looked between them, bewildered. “What are you talking about...?” he faltered. 

Cara didn’t look at him. “Looked to me like prisoner number 34667 died in a refinery explosion on Morak.” 

Realization dawned on Mayfeld’s face. “Does- does that mean I can go?” Cara rolled her eyes, Din barely keeping from snickering at her exasperated expression while Mayfeld stepped back a step and raised his hands like he expected to be attacked. “You’re not seriously going to ditch me on this backwater, are ya?” Mayfeld protested weakly, though he did back up another step. “With no food or supplies or nothin’? C’mon, at least leave me at the next fuel stop.” 

It... was a reasonable point. Rescuing him from prison just to abandon him to die in the jungle or at the hands of the natives was hardly a favor. And... well. Even if Mayfeld didn’t know about it, technically Din had a responsibility to him now. Making another snap decision- he was making a lot of those today- Din jerked his head at the ship. “Get in. Next fuel stop you get off.” 

Mayfeld brightened. “Really?” 

Cara glared at him. “Really, Mando?” she hissed. 

“No more lying than you’d already be doing,” he shrugged. “You really don’t think he can’t disappear as effectively in some seedy fuel stop as he could here? More?” 

“But why?” she hissed. 

Din didn’t allow himself to look at Mayfeld. “My son’s life for his. Now we’re even.” It was the truth. Just not the whole truth. As usual. 

He just barely caught sight of Cara’s eyes widening before he had spun on his heel, turning to march stiffly up the ship’s ramp. 

Two sets of footsteps followed him. 

  
  
  
  
  


They didn’t make it to a fuel stop before they were enroute to Gideon’s cruiser. 

“So what do you want me to do?” Mayfeld asked, raising a ginger eyebrow. Bo Katan paused; she didn’t know his abilities, where he’d be useful, Din realized. 

“Go with the strike team,” he grunted. They could easily use an extra blaster. 

Mayfeld considered that, then firmly stated, “No. I’ll go with you, Mando.” 

Din frowned in his buy'ce. “I don’t need-” 

“Look, I’m a free man now. That means I get to pick where I go and how I help,” Mayfeld snapped, rolling his eyes. “And despite my track record so far, I can be sneaky, I assure you. I won’t slow you down.” 

Din opened his mouth to argue, but Koska nudged his side, grabbing his attention. 

She had her buy'ce up, and it was almost like being advised by one of his Tsad back on Navarro. Maybe that’s why it hit so hard when she murmured, “[ Tion'ad hukaat'kama, Jahailir’ade ](https://www.mandoa.org)?” 

Din swallowed. Looked back to Mayfeld, who was frowning slightly in confusion, glancing between them, but hadn’t retracted his offer. 

“Fine. You’re with me.” 

  
  
  
  
  


It turned out Mayfeld coming was a great idea. After he successfully managed to space the droids before they could get through while Din was occupied shooting at them, neatly sidestepping that whole problem, when they finally pulled up to the cell Grogu was in, Din just barely managed to throw him the hand sign for ‘hold’, disguised as a balancing arm motion, making Mayfeld pause before he came into Gideon’s line of sight. 

Gideon didn’t seem to notice the silent communication, his smug eyes fixed squarely on Din, and Din’s eyes fixed squarely on the sight of his ad’ika, in binders, clearly suffering from some kind of fatigue and reaching out plaintively to him, with a humming black void of death right next to his face. His belly went ice cold in terror. He vaguely wondered if his[ Buir](https://www.mandoa.org) had felt like that when he took him into his arms and droids had started firing at them. He wished he could just snatch Grogu up and jet straight up like he had. 

Gideon began to speak, and he only half paid attention to the words. Gideon seemed to think he wanted the lasersword. Din promptly corrected him, all the while thinking about the[ beskar](https://www.mandoa.org) spear strapped to his back and how Ahsoka Tano had mentioned the Magistrate had used it to fight her. 

His HUD alerted him to the movement at his side; Mayfeld warily glancing around the doorway into the cell, taking in the scene, his blaster still drawn, and as far as Din could tell, still totally unnoticed by Gideon. He did his best to keep it that way, half-heartedly replying to Gideon and prompting him to elaborate about the lasersword and its supposed power, buying them time and distracting Gideon. Apparently defeating its wielder in single combat meant the new wielder was the rightful ruler of the[ Mando’ade](https://www.mandoa.org). It sounded like a load of superstitious drivel to him. A spacer story, more fit for Correllians than Mando’ade, a special weapon that granted some kind of divine authority. 

Din Djarin knew that was banthaosik. A weapon had no authority or power of its own; the skill and danger lay in the hand of the wielder. Even the Death Star would have been useless without someone who knew how to aim it. Maybe they had a[ Mand’alor](https://www.mandoa.org) in the past, but he had always been taught not requiring a leader was one of their strengths. The Resol'nare was their ultimate leader, and that was far superior to any being. His [ Tsad](https://www.mandoa.org) may have been a cult, but he still believed that much. Apparently Bo Katan and her ilk didn’t, but that was a conversation for when his ad’ika was safe. 

Deciding he didn’t want to touch that particular hot mess with a parsec long pole, he reiterated he just wanted his ad. He didn’t care about the lasersword or ruling or power. Gideon seemed to buy it, stepping aside, and he warily reached for his ad, their relative positions forcing him to turn his back on Gideon for just a second-

“MANDO, DUCK!” 

He snatched Grogu and rolled to the side, shielding his ad'ika with his body as blasterfire rang through the air. He came up to a knee, taking in the scene in a second. Mayfeld was leaning around the doorway, only his face and arm out from behind the cover of the wall, and had fired into the room at Gideon, who apparently had been about to strike his turned back. Gideon was deflecting the bolts, but much more clumsily than Tano had, and Din cursed as he threw himself to the side to avoid one. 

Mayfeld noticed and the rate of fire decreased until he was just taking potshots; just enough to keep Gideon on the defensive. Easier for Gideon to avoid and deflect, but also easier for Din to avoid. “Let’s go, kids!” he roared. 

Din didn’t need to be told twice. 

He bolted into the hall, Mayfeld continuing to lay down suppressive fire, his rate of fire increasing again. Gideon was snarling now, the desperate gleam of a trapped animal in his eyes. Mayfeld stepped back from the doorway, still firing; the instant his arm was clear, Din slapped the door close button, while Mayfeld whipped out a comm. 

“Ladies, can we get an assist here please?!” he shouted into the comm. 

The lasersword suddenly sprouted from the door, metal beginning to melt to slag. 

“Anytime would be lovely!” Mayfeld yelped, stepping back from the door, pale eyes wide. “Immediately would be even better!” 

They were probably on the bridge already. It would be minutes before anyone got here, and that door wasn’t going to last that long. He shoved Grogu at Mayfeld, who took him with a startled noise. “Get him to the bridge and Cara,” he snapped. “And _don’t_ drop him again.” He turned back to the door, drawing the spear with the dull ring of beskar scraping against beskar. “I’ll hold him off.” 

Mayfeld hesitated. 

A roughly rectangular section of the door, big enough for a man to step through, being kicked into the hall with a deafening _crash_ seemed to decide whatever debate he was having with himself. 

“Don’t be late, Mando!” he shouted, running pace bootsteps rapidly retreating. Din didn't watch them go; between Mayfeld and Cara, he would be safe. Reassured Grogu was out of the line of fire, he allowed all his attention to focus on his enemy and battle clarity to fall over his eyes. 

Gideon sneered, brandishing the blade at him clumsily. Din struck. 

Plasma crackled against beskar as they exchanged blows. The sword was dangerous, Gideon hadn't lied about that, effortlessly slicing through everything except the beskar; but it quickly became clear he wasn't actually trained to use it properly as a weapon, only brandish it about and intimidate. Against an equal weapon, like his beskar spear, and a better trained martial artist, like himself, it almost wasn't even a fight. Din found himself wanting to call out corrections, like Gideon was a[ kyrbej'ad](https://www.mandoa.org) and this was merely a training spar, just to be a [ besom](https://www.mandoa.org). 

Damn Mayfeld must be rubbing off on him. 

Gideon didn't take long to realize just how one sided the fight was and begin to retreat, heading for the hangars. He dared not turn and run, Din knew; not when Din still had his blaster on his hip, primed and ready to send a bolt in between his shoulderblades, Bo Katan’s goals be damned. Din matched him step for step, passing up every opportunity Gideon gave him to finish the fight. He had no intention of letting Gideon escape, but also no intention of getting between Bo Katan and her prize if he could avoid it. Even the tiny bit Gideon had told him sounded like a headache and a half he didn't need. 

Bo-Katan’s familiar beskar'gam appearing at the end of the hall, Koska at her shoulder, was a relief. He stopped attacking, only deflecting blows now, and waited for Gideon to notice he had a new challenger. 

“Go see to your son,[ Jahailir’ade](https://www.mandoa.org),” Bo Katan said, evenly. Coolly. “We’ll take it from here.” 

Gideon froze, half-turning back to her, dark eyes calculating. 

Din gratefully nodded. “He’s all yours.” 

This time, he didn’t turn his back. 

  
  
  
  
  


The bridge was lively for the number of people on it, with Fennec and Cara nearly shouting back and forth as they tried to get into the control panels, Cara occasionally shooting a deriding comment at Mayfeld, slumped in one of the comms crew seats, who just snapped back that he had been a sharpshooter, not navy, much less any sort of bridge crew, so maybe cut him some slack. 

But Din only barely processed any of that. His eyes were inexorably drawn to the tiny brown robed figure still cradled in Mayfeld’s off arm and on his lap, leaned against his chest. Automatically, he scanned for wounds, relieved when he noticed nothing further than what had been apparent in the cell. Someone had taken the binders off him, allowing him to curl little clawed hands into Mayfeld’s shirt instead; Din was grateful, whoever it had been. Sleepy brown eyes blinked back at him, and a single tiny hand uncurled from Mayfeld’s shirt, reaching out to him plaintively. 

Din didn’t hesitate, striding up to drop to a knee next to Mayfeld and reaching back, letting that little hand clasp his finger. “Hey, there he is,” Mayfeld greeted him playfully, apparently not expecting an answer since he immediately continued. “You wanna go to daddy, then, little guy? Yeah, course you do. Here we go-” And Grogu was in his hands again. He hadn’t had the time and attention to appreciate it, before, in the cell; now it was all he could focus on. 

It was fine. Cara and Mayfeld and Fennec were all here; Bo Katan and Koska would be back any minute. He could leave watching his six to them, at least for a minute. 

Din tilted his head forward, just a little; Grogu’s brow thumped lightly against his visor in return, a little happy coo filling the air between them and little clawed hands patting the cheeks of his buy’ce, a little tap-tap-tap of claws on beskar. 

Din let his eyes slip closed, and for the first time since he saw a mountain of armor and knew he was the last of his Tsad, he offered up a prayer of thanks. 

  
  
  
  
  


Even simply through video, Din could tell this being was powerful. The same way Grogu was powerful. 

He watched, strangely detached, as the Jedi’s- for there was nothing else the being could be- lasersword, this one a bright, spring green, cut through the dark troopers like a hot knife through butter, simple gestures of their hands wielding the same power that Grogu clumsily threw about like a scalpel. 

Din swallowed thickly. This was the being he would be giving up his ad to. He knew it down to his bones.

The ad he had _just_ gotten back. 

No, it was too soon,[ _haar'chaak_](https://www.mandoa.org) -! 

He looked down at Grogu when he felt the kid shift, baby huge eyes wide and bright and reaching out to touch the screen, cooing inquisitively at the screen. But he didn’t look like he was looking at a stranger; he looked like he was looking at Cara or Greef or Peli; someone Grogu knew and liked and wanted their attention. 

Likely he did recognize the Jedi. Likely he had communicated with him at the Seeing Stone, like he had communicated with Ahsoka, without a word spoken. 

Din steeled himself, locking down his own rising panic and fear and grief. This was why he had been taking the kid to the Jedi this whole time; they could teach what he couldn’t, communicate with him on his wavelength. It wasn’t anyone’s fault Din was who he was and his kyrbej'ad was who he was; nothing to fight against. Just what was best for his ad. That was the duty of the Buir, to give up the ad to walk their own path and make their own way when they could protect them no longer, teach them no more. 

_Haar’chak._ No one had ever mentioned that part was so _hard_. 

Like he was in a trance, he picked Grogu up, shifting him to one arm, and moved towards the doors. “Open the doors.” 

No one moved. Fennec scoffed, “Are you crazy?”

He pushed the button himself, and the Jedi stepped through the smoke. 

The glowing green blade retracted, the ensuing silence oddly loud in the absence of the pervasive hum of the weapon, and the Jedi lowered their hood, revealing the faintly scarred face of a young human male. Twenty five, thirty at most, blond, serene, placid face. Like he had simply strolled up here instead of tearing through a platoon of dark troopers like wet paper. 

“Are you a Jedi?” was all he could think of to say. 

The man nodded. “I am.” 

The Jedi smiled softly, locking eyes with Grogu, and seemed to speak without opening his mouth. Grogu brightened, apparently responding in kind. 

The Jedi held out a hand. The invitation was clear. “Come little one.” 

Din swallowed and slowly, ever so slowly, bent, feeling like he was moving through some kind of viscous fluid. Big brown eyes looked up at him as he set Grogu on his own feet, gently pushing him towards the Jedi, then straightening again; but now all the sudden Grogu was acting like the Jedi was a stranger, refusing to go to him and clinging to Din’s boot instead, hiding behind his leg, moon-sized eyes still staring up at him. 

Feeling like he was choking out his words around a rock in his throat, he stiffly ground out, “He doesn’t want to go with you.” 

“He wants your permission,” the Jedi softly informed him. His head cocked to the side a little, eyes going sharp, like he was just noticing something interesting, and he added, “He is strong with the Force. But talent without training is nothing. I will give my life to protect the child, but he will not be safe until he masters his abilities.” 

Din nodded jerkily. It was all his own thoughts and reassurances echoed back at him. He looked down again. 

Faster than he had put him down, he picked Grogu up again, locking gazes with him. Trying his best to sound reassuring, he offered gently, “Hey, go on. That’s who you belong with, he’s one of your kind.” Softer, he added, “I’ll see you again. I promise.” 

Little claws raised and tapped against his faceplate again. Tap-tap-tap. He knew what Grogu wanted; the kid had been passively curious for months, but despite proving, time and again, if he wanted he could have just pulled the buy'ce right off Din’s head, he hadn’t. He had respected that boundary, and even now, Grogu asked, not demanded. Indecision curdled in his gut, a foreign feeling he wasn’t used to. The room was full of people, and the Resol'nare- but he had already broken the Resol'nare. Mayfeld had claimed his exception. But- 

But he might not get another chance. 

The[ Bes’goran](https://www.mandoa.org) had called them [ aliit](https://www.mandoa.org) . Aliit [ Slaat’taakur](https://www.mandoa.org). An aliit soon to be of one, but for this moment at least still an aliit of two. The kid deserved to be treated as such. 

Hand shaking a little, he reached up to grab the edge of his buy’ce, started to lift-

“Whoa whoa whoa whoa,” Mayfeld abruptly burst, breaking the silence of the otherwise still room. His boots stomped on the deck, stalking up to them, and he could practically hear Mayfeld’s scowl. Din froze. “What the kriff?! After all that, you’re just going to send him off with the next lasersword wielding maniac you see?” 

“You saw him cut through those droids,” Din husked out, eyes locked on his ad’s face, memorizing it. “He can protect him better than I can. Teach him better than I can.” 

“But he can’t love him better than you can, anyone with damn eyes can see that!” Mayfeld snapped. “And that’s a _damn_ sight more important. Besides, didn’t we just neutralize the threat that kept putting out hits on him?” 

“Stand down, mercenary,” Bo Katan interjected firmly, though Din was pretty sure he wasn’t quite imagining the trace of reluctance in her voice. “It is the right of the parent to decide what’s best for his child.” 

“Well what about the child’s rights?!” he snarled. “Doesn’t the kid deserve a say? Hey, kid,” he abruptly was beside them, practically pressed against Din’s side, meeting huge brown eyes solemnly. “Do you want to stay with your daddy or with this fuckin’ guy?” he jerked a dismissive thumb at the Jedi. 

Grogu cooed uncertainly, looking between the three of them. Din swallowed. Part of him wanted to bristle, to push Mayfeld away and tell him off for daring to interfere, to reassure Grogu again that this was the right thing to do, but that part was locked in a stalemate with the part of him that was desperately clamoring for an excuse, any excuse, to avoid this. As a result, his tongue was useless. Ka’ra, he had never felt so _helpless,_ so gutted by the right thing, not even when he said goodbye to Omera. 

“I assure you-” the Jedi began to speak, soothing and reasonable. 

A blaster right in his face shut him up quick. Din blinked, slowly registering Mayfeld had drawn his blaster, eyes narrowed and snarl curling his lip, his hand and blaster unwavering. 

“You touch that kid before we’re all in agreement and I’ll kill you.” 

The Jedi blinked, slowly, gaze unfocusing for a second like he was hearing something far away, then of all Ka’ra damned things, _smiled._ “I’m sorry,” he hummed enigmatically, “I didn’t realize the child had two fathers. Forgive my insult.” 

Mayfeld was _blushing_. And sputtering. Din barely choked back an incredulous laugh, distantly amused on a number of levels now. He couldn’t help but notice the blaster didn’t waver even a centimeeter, though. 

Cara had no such reservations, apparently, snickering. There was a nervous ring to it, but apparently emboldened by Mayfeld, she piped up too. “You know, Mando, I don’t recall the Armorer giving you a specific timeline or anything. If you two just... like, exchange comm codes or something, like _normal_ people, none of you have to make a decision today.” 

The Jedi looked at her now, unruffled after his initial moment of surprise to be having this conversation with a blaster aimed at his head. He kept smiling. "That is true. The Jedi are no longer baby snatchers. We can wait until he is of age. Though I regret I do not keep a comm on me normally. Old habits, you know." He shrugged, looked back to Din. "However, you know where the Seeing Stone is. He should be able to reach me from there, regardless of where I happen to be at the time. And if you can't get back to Tython, you can contact me through other methods." 

Din could hardly swallow, much less speak, around the swell of hope and relief swelling in his throat, but he managed to husk out anyway, "When... when he's ready, you'll take him?" 

The Jedi's eyes softened. “My lessons will keep,” he offered, gentle but firm. "He's already learned much from you, but I sense he has much more to learn yet. When there's nothing more for you to teach him, when you're both ready," he nodded solemnly. "Yes, I will take him."

Mayfeld nodded, lowering his blaster. "Well that's that, then." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (in order of appearance) 
> 
> Resol'nare- Creed. Lit: six actions, the guiding code of the Mandalorians.   
> Beskar'gam- Armor. Lit: iron skin  
> Buy'ce- Helmet.   
> Areutii- Outsider. Distinct from dar'manda; someone who isn't Mandalorian and never was.  
> Ad'ika- Little one. Lit: little child.   
> Ad- Child. Gender neutral.   
> Ka'ra- Stars. Both literally stars, and figuratively, the council of dead Mand'alors that rule the Manda.   
> Tsad- Tribe. Lit: any organization that isn't a clan or a house.   
> Tion'ad hukaat'kama, Jahailir’ade?- Who's watching your back, Child of the Watch?   
> Buir- Father. Lit: Parent. Gender Neutral.   
> Beskar- Mandalorian iron.   
> Mando'ade- Mandalorians (demonym). Lit: Children of Mandalore.   
> Mand'alor- Mandalorian head of state. Lit: Leader of Mandalorians or Sole Ruler.  
> Kyrbej'ad- Foundling. Lit: Child of the battlefield.   
> Besom- Asshole. Insult referring to a rude, uncultured lout by Mandalorian standards.   
> Jahailir'ade- Child of the Watch.   
> Haar'chaak- Damn it.   
> Bes'goran- Armorer. Lit: Iron smith.   
> Aliit- Clan, family.   
> Slaat'taakur- Mudhorn.


	2. Moving Right Along

Din watched the X-wing disappear into hyperspace, a new datacylinder with instructions on how to get in touch with the Jedi on it clenched in his fist, and against all the odds, Grogu in his arms, and felt numb. 

“So... what now?” 

He half turned back to look at Mayfeld, casually slumped in one of the console chairs again. The man had directed the question to the room, but it was a good one. What now, indeed. 

Bo Katan looked up from where she had been helping Koska treat a glancing blaster burn on the younger woman. “This vessel is mine, by right of combat. I will be taking it.” 

“Don’t know how you plan to get it anywhere with just the two of you, but good luck with that,” Mayfeld quipped. Bo Katan just smirked mysteriously and turned back to Koska. 

“Fine by me,” Cara grumbled. “I’m taking Gideon and anything we can get off the terminals. I’ll take one of the shuttles.” 

Mayfeld hummed and nodded. “Avoid whatever shuttle you get on, got it.” 

“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be out of your hair as soon as Fett circles back,” Fennec offered blithely. 

“Ooo. Sounds like you two are headed off for a romp and a half,” Mayfeld needled, raising a prying eyebrow. Fennec just snorted and rolled her eyes. Companionable silence settled over the bridge.

“What about you, Mando?” 

Din looked down at Grogu, falling asleep against his cuirass now, and took a slow breath, carefully choosing his words. It had apparently been decided that he would properly take on Grogu as if he were any other[ kyrbej'ad](https://www.mandoa.org) ; at least until there was nothing more for Din to teach him, whatever that meant. Or at least until he was old enough to make the decision to swear either to the [ Resol'nare](https://www.mandoa.org) or to the Jedi and choose his own path. In the meantime... He thought about what he might have done with any other kyrbej'ad. Thought about the [ morut](https://www.mandoa.org) on Nevarro, abandoned now. 

“Now I go to ground. To raise him.” He considered possible options; they were limited, considering his lack of... really anything. With the Crest destroyed, all he had in the galaxy was on his back. Not insurmountable, but... limiting. The thought of Sorgan crossed his mind, but he immediately dismissed it. “Maybe Tatooine-” 

“Eh, if you’re looking for a quiet place, I’d avoid Tatooine for a while,” Fennec offered blandly, shrugging when he looked at her. “Just some friendly advice.” 

He nodded shallowly, acknowledging the favor. “I need to get a new ship.” 

“You know, you both could stay with us,” Bo Katan piped up, faux casual. “You may be a zealot, but you are an honorable warrior. Warriors will always have a place among our ranks.” 

She couldn't know how the comment stung. He refused to flinch, or correct her on the state of his honor. He wasn’t even sure what it was anymore anyway. He shook his head. “No. Secrecy will be our survival. Considering this ship, I doubt you plan to remain secret much longer.” 

Bo Katan shrugged a single shoulder, neither confirming nor denying, but her hand drifted to the lasersword hilt hanging from her belt, caressing it thoughtfully. “Take one of the shuttles, then. Plenty of Outer Rim backwaters willing to junk them for scrap. Should be enough to get you started.” 

Din considered that for a moment, then nodded. It was reasonable. 

Mayfeld brought his hands down on his thighs, making a soft slap, then leveraged himself up out of the chair. “Right! Sounds great. When we leaving, Mando?” 

He froze, gaze suddenly zeroed in on Mayfeld. “We?” Had he somehow let something slip-?

“Yeah, we,” he snorted, crossing his arms over his chest and shifting his weight to one leg. “What, you think my options are any less limited than yours right now? I’m _not_ going with Marshal Reb there, and I’m not planning to get caught up in whatever little personal crusade you two are cooking up,” he gestured off-handedly at Bo Katan and Koska, “and while kicking up some trouble on Tatooine sounds interesting,” he raised an eyebrow at Fennec, who merely rolled her eyes dismissively, “something tells me I’m not welcome. That leaves jumpin’ ship with you, Mando.” 

He had a point. Half-heartedly, he protested, “You could take your own shuttle.” 

“Hey, I’m dead, remember?” he snorted. “That means anything involving a chain code, I can’t do anymore, unless you want me to kriff over your friend here. Thank you again, by the way, Marshal, ma'am. But no chain code means I can't do things like sign over a mysteriously acquired Imperial shuttlecraft to a junkyard. Even Outer Rim’s got _some_ standards.” 

Din sighed. "Sit back down. We're not leaving yet." He at the very least needed to see if he could scavenge a basic kit and a few days worth of supplies before they left, and see Cara off, but even before all that, it seemed they had at least a minute to rest. 

A wise[ verd](https://www.mandoa.org) took what opportunities to rest he could. Din planned to enjoy it, and refocused on the warm weight of his [ ad'ika](https://www.mandoa.org).

Mayfeld shrugged and slumped back down. Companionable silence returned. 

"...So, not as much of a traditionalist as you pretend to be, eh,[ Jahailir’ade](https://www.mandoa.org)?" 

Din didn't need to look at Koska to hear her gleeful grin. He resisted the urge to groan; the younger girl hadn't teased him before, but he had had enough[ vod’e](https://www.mandoa.org) to recognize the tones of one about to do so. 

"What are you talking about?" Mayfeld asked, frowning in confusion. 

Koska leaned forward, her dark eyes gleaming with teasing humor as they flicked between him and Mayfeld. "How long have you two been courting?" 

Cara burst out laughing. Mayfeld apparently choked on his own spit and sputtered again.

Oh,[ _Ka'ra_](https://www.mandoa.org) no. He was not ready for this conversation. 

"And we're leaving now," he grunted firmly, spinning on his heel to march to the door, snagging Mayfeld's arm along the way to drag him along. No way was he leaving Mayfeld here, _alone_ with Bo Katan and Koska, for them to tell him who knew what nonsense. He could rest on the shuttle. 

Mayfeld was still sputtering, surprised enough that he just let Din manhandle him. "Wha- The f-? Mando, what is she-?" 

"Let's go," he grunted in lieu of actually answering any questions. 

Cara was still laughing, clutching her sides. "Hey Mando, make sure you two don't wake the baby! Or make another one!" she called after them, the traitor. 

"Yes, at least lock the door," Bo Katan added, snickering herself. "And sanitize whatever flat surface you decide to use. This is my ship now, I'd like to keep it _somewhat_ clean." 

"Hey kriff you too!" Mayfeld managed to gather himself enough to shoot back, peals of laughter from all four women spilling out after them into the hall. 

  
  
  
  
  


"So, planning to share with the class why twice in the last hour someone's assumed we're a couple?" 

Din sighed. Despite not being Imperial Navy, Mayfeld still had a decent idea of the layout of a cruiser, so it wasn't difficult to find the storerooms and the barracks. It had been more difficult finding ones that weren't empty; Bo Katan hadn't been exaggerating when she said this cruiser had been operating with a skeleton crew. But they had eventually done it, and now were in the process of pulling together supplies; Mayfeld was loading ration packs onto a hovercart they found, while Din had relocated the still sleeping Grogu back to his satchel- kid hadn't even stirred, just curled against his hip through the bag, he was starting to get worried he had overexerted himself again- and was pulling together personal kits for all three of them. The kid didn’t need much, so Din just threw his things in with his own; nothing fancy, just enough to get them planetside without smelling too bad or having to spend credits they didn't have to spend when they got there. He had been starting to hope Mayfeld had decided to let Koska's comments go, but no such luck. 

"Probably because you spoke on behalf of the kid staying with me," he offered vaguely. And not just spoke; Mayfeld had made moves to defend them, and outright threatened a being obviously far superior to himself in combat ability, without any hesitation or prompting. The opposite, actually; Bo Katan had told him to stand down, and he had outright refused. At least that was what Koska picked up on, he wasn't entirely sure about the Jedi, though it stood to reason that had also been what he noticed. Din wasn't sure what planet Mayfeld was from where that wouldn't read as some kind of kinship to a stranger. 

Honestly, he wasn't sure how it read to _himself_. Not that he wasn't grateful; just... confused. 

Two out of three, a distant part of himself noted clinically. Completely out of order, but two out of three regardless. 

“We had _just_ gotten him back!” Mayfeld defended himself exasperatedly. “I wasn’t going to let all that effort go to _waste_.” A beat of quiet passed, then he added, "Beating feet like that was basically an admission of guilt, you realize? They'll never shut up about it now."

Din grunted vaguely. Mayfeld seemed get the hint and went quiet. 

He wrestled with himself for a moment before offering softly into the ensuing quiet, “Thank you.” 

“... For what?”

He had hoped he wouldn’t ask that. Regardless, he grit his teeth and elaborated shortly, “For speaking up.” 

“Oh hell, Mando, don’t get mushy on me now-” 

“I was going to give him up.” 

Mayfeld went silent. Even the sound of his movements ceased, showing he had Mayfeld’s full attention. Din didn’t want to explain, wasn’t used to it after so many years of letting others interpret his silence how they wished, but he suddenly needed Mayfeld to _understand_ what he had done for him, so he ground out, staring blankly at the contents of the shelves in front of him, “I was going to let the Jedi take him. But you spoke up, encouraged Cara to speak and remind us who weren’t thinking straight of the options. My... my son would be lost to me now if you hadn’t. So thank you.” 

The silence stretched again, tense and heavy. 

“... Don’t mention it, Mando.” 

Din felt his shoulders relax. Judging by the uncharacteristic solemnity of Mayfeld’s tone, he understood. Satisfied, he returned to the kits, the silence a little lighter than before. 

  
  
  
  
  


“Get in there! Hup!” 

Din watched Cara manhandle a bound, gagged and surly looking Gideon onto the shuttle she had chosen with a fondly wry smile. It was no carbonite, but he had a feeling she would make it work anyway. Cara was resourceful. 

After making sure the bonds strapping him to the chair she had dumped him in were secure, Cara blew some stray hair out of her face and scowled darkly down at him, pointing a finger at his face, commanding, “Stay there!” Leaving him there, she strolled back down the ramp, the irritation clearing from her round face to offer him a small smile. “Sure you don’t want to come back to Nevarro?” she offered once again. “Greef’s offer still stands, you know.” She chuckled and rolled her eyes fondly. “To hear him tell it, you’re the golden boy of the good old days and the son he never had. You’d be welcome. Both you and the little guy.” 

He wished he could. To return and reestablish the morut would be... good. But the events on Nevarro were still too recent, too fresh in the memory. His return would be noticed by too many. Ka’ra, had it really been less than a year? So much had changed since he took that under the table job from Greef, thinking only of the potential credits and the mouths they could feed. 

“Thanks,” he offered sincerely. “But I’m too closely associated with Nevarro now. I need to go somewhere no one will think to look for or notice us.” He hesitated, then offered softly, “Maybe in a few years.” 

Cara nodded, her smile turning slightly disappointed but understanding. “I’ll keep the catacombs cleared and waiting for you when you get back.” A thought seemed to occur to her, and she offered, “You could try Espirion. Good planet, Espirion. Militant. Mild. I think you’d like it.” 

“I’ll keep it in mind,” he hummed, filing away the name for later. He held out a hand this time. “Until our paths cross, Cara Dune. I am in your debt.” 

She blinked, then grinned, her palm slapping against his and grip solid. “I’ll keep that in mind. Until our paths cross, Mando.” 

Something told him she would make him regret making that vow later, somehow, but Din couldn’t regret it now as he watched Cara board her shuttle and take off. Practically on her heels, Fett returned, _Slave 1_ smoothly landing in the hangar. 

Fett marched down the ramp, coming to stand before him. Without preamble, he asked, “The child is returned to your care?” 

Din nodded solemnly. “The child is returned and safe. The enemies hosting the bounty are no more.” 

Fett nodded shallowly in return. “Then the armor is mine.” 

“The armor is yours,” Din agreed. Another violation of the Resol'nare, but a deal was a deal. His honor couldn’t handle any more blows today, but allowing a venerable warrior like Fett to wear the[ beskar](https://www.mandoa.org) was a compromise he _was_ willing to accept. He had faith the beskar would return, in time. “You are released from my service.” 

“Then may the sands cover your tracks.” With that distinctly Tatooinian benediction and a final shallow nod, Fett spun on his heel and disappeared into his ship again, Fennec on his tails shooting him a sarcastic little salute as she passed, and the _Slave 1_ was gone. 

“Alright, Mando, everything’s packed up!” Mayfeld called from inside the shuttle they were taking. Din looked up to see him step into the doorway, leaning his weight against the door frame casually. “Everyone else is scattering like womp rats out of a burning barn, we should do the same.” 

Din nodded. “Let me just-” The doors to the grav-lift from the bridge abruptly opened, Bo-Katan striding into the hangar from the lift and making straight for him, Koska at her shoulder. Speak of a devil. 

Bo Katan’s eyes flicked to Mayfeld, acknowledging his presence, then refocused on him, the women coming to stand in front of him, both of them solid and proud. “Are you sure you won’t stay, Jahailir’ade?” she asked. “Unity has always been our strength, in the past. Like you told your son, you belong with your kind. Together, we could help you protect him.” 

“... it’s tempting,” he allowed, reluctantly. And it was, memories of the morut on Nevarro seeping into his conscious mind. It would be good to have something like that again, a new[ Tsad](https://www.mandoa.org) . “But we need to keep moving. Secrecy will be our survival.” Hesitating only for a moment, not sure the words were his to claim anymore, much less if anyone would answer, he offered, “ [ Nari Mandokar. ](https://www.mandoa.org)”

A tiny, wry smile quirked the older woman’s lips. “Nari Mandokar,” she returned. It was a pale imitation, and maybe just because she was female, but just for a moment, he was reminded of the[ Bes’goran](https://www.mandoa.org). Something in his chest ached. 

“Hey, what’s that you keep calling him? Jay-whatever?” Mayfeld abruptly piped up. 

"Jahailir’ade?" Koska offered. 

"That's the one. You people don't just call him Mando too?" 

"Of course not," Koska scoffed, rolling her eyes. "You don't call other humans Human, do you? But his Tsad don't like to use names, so we call him by his Tsad." 

"Come on, Basic please!" Mayfeld groaned. "Either answer the question or tell me to kriff off, don't dance around it." 

Koska began to interpret for Mayfeld in Basic, and Din bit his tongue against a knee-jerk reprimand. Apparently not all[ Mando'ade](https://www.mandoa.org) believed in discretion as strongly as he; and it must not be the death sentence he thought it to be either, since apparently both she and Bo Katan had lived all their lives this way. Anyway, she wasn't his aliit, it wasn't his place to reprimand her, and Mayfeld was... well. Still, the casual revealing of their secrets to someone who had made no vows of loyalty or secrecy made him jittery. He was distracted from his thoughts when Bo Katan's eyebrow quirked, and she leaned closer to him, amusement dancing in her eyes. Softly, just to him, the older woman murmured, "I see why you picked him." 

Din flushed and protested lightly, feeling like it was a lie, "No overtures have been made." 

"Yet," she hummed, but let the subject drop. 

"... and the Children of the Watch are a c-" Koska cut herself off, glancing at him, and then continued, "Orthodox religious sect." 

"Hold on, did you almost just say _cult?_ " Mayfeld exclaimed incredulously, straightening. "Mando, you're in a cult?" Din’s shoulders stiffened involuntarily. Mayfeld laughed. "Dank farrik! Suddenly it all makes sense. Is that why he doesn't...?" He pantomimed removing a helmet. "But you two do?" 

"Yes," Koska nodded. 

“Oh that is perfect,” Mayfeld grinned like the lothcat that got the womp rat. Din resisted the urge to sigh. 

“We should go.” 

“Just a moment,” Bo Katan insisted, reaching out to place a stalling hand on his arm. “I think you should see this before you go.” 

Din frowned. “See what-?” 

“What the hell?”

Mayfeld’s uncertain exclamation made Din look at him, then when he realized he was staring wide-eyed out of the hangar, turn and look out into the void of space himself. 

Shock made his own thoughts slow. 

Vessels were popping out of hyperspace. Not just one or two; dozens, and more by the second, a staggering array of sizes, makes and models. In minutes, dozens became a hundred, then more. 

Most of them bore the Mythosaur. 

“Holy Hells,” Mayfeld breathed. 

A few smaller vessels came into focus, and suddenly the hangar was being invaded. The first to land was a small single-man fighter, and it had barely stopped before the top was popping open, and Axe Woves was bursting out of it. More fighters, a whole squadron of them really, and two larger vessels also landed, setting down wherever there was space, and armored forms were spilling forth into the hangar. 

Din’s breath caught and he swallowed nervously. He had never seen so many Mando’ade at once- Ka’ra, he hadn’t even known there were so many Mando’ade _alive_ . At their height, his Tsad had been only a few dozen strong, including the [ ade](https://www.mandoa.org) ; there were easily a hundred [ verde](https://www.mandoa.org) swarming the hangar now, their battle-scarred [ beskar'gam](https://www.mandoa.org) painted in a staggering array of colors and patterns, voices overlapping in a bold and chaotic tide of sound, more pouring from the vessels, and there were _still vessels dropping from hyperspace._ It was like a scene from the old days, from one of the Bes’goran’s tales of the time before the [ Ori'haran](https://www.mandoa.org), a myth brought to life. 

He had never felt so alienated in his life. 

A movement at his hip and soft coo made him look down. Grogu had stirred, perhaps disturbed by the commotion, and was peering out from under the satchel’s cover, his big eyes bright with wonder and ears perked up inquisitively as he leaned around Din’s side, trying to remain hidden and yet see. 

Bo Katan chuckled, and when he looked at her, found her smiling down at Grogu, the kid looking up at her excitedly. “Yes, that’s our people, ad’ika. It’s a glorious sight, isn’t it?” Grogu made a noise that could be interpreted as agreement. 

“[ Alor ](https://www.mandoa.org)!” 

Axe was striding up to them now, hands lifting to remove his[ buy’ce](https://www.mandoa.org), revealing a worriedly knitted brow, a question clear in his tone and face. His call seemed to be some sort of signal, the din quieting and every buy’ce in the hangar locking on Bo Katan. 

Bo Katan’s shoulders drew back, her chest puffing out a bit and chin lifting. Without glancing down, she drew the lasersword from her belt and activated it, lifting it into the air in triumph. 

The sudden roar of approval was deafening. Grogu squeaked and cringed into his hip, surprised and frightened by the noise, but Din barely felt it, too distracted by the emotions bubbling up in his chest. 

This was... more than he had ever dared to dream. 

Bo Katan sheathed the black blade and re-holstered the weapon, a grin breaking out over her own face. She issued a few brisk commands to Koska and Axe and another Mando’ade that approached but he didn’t recognize, the three acknowledging the orders and moving off, barking their own commands to their subordinates, apparently beginning the process of getting the cruiser staffed and squared away for their use. Finally, she turned back to him. 

“Soon we will have to be warriors in the shadows no more,” she said, and it sounded like a promise. “Every day, we are winning more victories, more resources. The day is coming when we will again have a home and an Empire of our own.” Din swallowed hard and thought about Paz. Her head tilted, tone gentling a bit again. “If you ever decide you want one, come to Concordia. You and yours will have a place with us.” 

For a moment, Din just stared at her, at a loss for words. 

He still didn’t consider her[ Mand’alor](https://www.mandoa.org). There was no war to fight, therefore no army for her to lead. He would not be moved on that until a call to arms was put out. But... that didn’t mean she didn’t deserve respect. 

Slowly, shallowly, he bowed his head, and husked out, “[ Mesen’alor ](https://www.mandoa.org).” That much he would grant her. 

He didn’t wait to see her reaction, turning and marching up into his shuttle.

  
  
  
  
  


Stars blurred into hyperspace, and Din leaned back into his seat, exhaling slowly, just... processing. 

There was a lot to unpack from the past few days. 

“So where we headed, Mando?” Mayfeld asked casually. When Din turned his head to look at him, the mercenary was leaned back in his own seat, boots kicked up casually on the console and ginger eyebrow arched. The picture of rakish insolence. 

While he was debating what to tell him- if anything at all, keeping him in the dark was probably the best- a squeaky little noise from his other side caught his attention next. He turned to look at Grogu, catching the tail end of a wide yawn from the kid. Big eyes blinked sleepily at him, the kid clearly flagging again after the momentary excitement of what they had witnessed in the hangar. He was probably still fatigued from his ordeal as Gideon’s prisoner, and the rescue, as well. Din could probably do with some sleep too. 

For a moment, he spared a thought of longing for his little sleeping compartment on the Razor Crest, and Grogu’s little hammock slung from the ceiling in the corner of it after his repulsorlift cradle was lost on Trask. The bit of familiarity would probably do the kid well at the moment, but... well. Razor Crest was gone, and if the kid felt like the shuttle wasn’t the same, that’s because it was. Nothing for it. Best for the kid to get used to adjusting to change, that was the nature of life. 

He had thought about a sleeping solution for him while packing the kid’s kit, though, and was pleased to know he was prepared this time. He stood and went to where their kits were stored, pulling from his kit a still folded spare duffel. He had noticed they were just a little bit bigger than his shoulder satchel; the perfect size to hold Grogu. He also pulled out from his kit several plain undershirts he had grabbed from the uniform supply, a few rods that seemed to be some kind of emergency tent parts but mostly Din had grabbed because they looked sturdy but flexible, and a spool of twine. 

Not looking at Mayfeld, he set about building a[ vhet’buycika](https://www.mandoa.org). 

Four of the rods were lashed together to make a rectangle, then lengths of twine pulling the corners together until the sides arched into smooth curves, just a little taller than the duffel was deep. An additional rod spanning from the apex of each arc gave the whole thing extra strength and stability. He turned it over to sit on the rockers, and replaced the twine with two more poles, shortened to the correct length with his vibroblade. He put some weight on it, testing; he nodded to himself when he found it solid enough to support the kid. Grogu was light. 

The duffel he unfolded and opened, pushing the top flap down inside, tucking it out of the way; same with the over the shoulder strap. The shirts he shredded into strips, making them artificially worn and softer, filling the inside of the bag like nesting material. The shuttle was designed to be used as an emergency shelter if used as an escape pod, Mayfeld had said, with a pair of fold-out bunks set into the entryway walls, and an emergency kit stashed under the console. He found the kit, and pulled out the gray wool emergency blanket, adding it to the duffel for the little bit of extra comfort. Finally, a bit of twine lashed the side handles of the duffel to the sides of the frame in place of a hammock, supporting the duffel-turned-[ buycika ](https://www.mandoa.org). 

Mayfeld whistled, low and soft. “Impressive.” 

He wasn’t sure if it was meant sarcastically or not. Ignoring Mayfeld, he turned back to Grogu, finding he had already started falling asleep where he sat in the chair Din had put him in and wasn’t paying attention to anything around him. He chuckled fondly, picking up the vhet’buycika and moving it to sit right beside his own chair, tucked up nearly under the console, his own chair between the cradle and Mayfeld. Sheltered. Within reach. Protected. Satisfied, he twisted and reached out the arm’s length to the chair Grogu occupied, picking him up. The contact and movement startled him awake, big eyes blinking sleepily at the bed as Din settled him in the center of it, lightly tapping the edge to make it rock. 

Apparently the vhet’buycika met his approval, or at least didn’t rate anything more than a cursory examination, because after only a few moments of inspection Grogu was curled up in the center of it, nestled into the blanket, fast asleep. 

Pride bloomed in Din’s chest. It might not be an armored repulsorlift cradle, but it was good enough for his ad’ika. He felt like he had passed some sort of test. 

“So am I just going to get the silent treatment the whole trip, or what?” 

The little trace of good mood that had started to brew seeped away, replaced with dull irritation. Din slipped back into the pilot’s chair. 

"C'mon, Mando, I thought we had gotten a bit closer than that!" Mayfeld huffed. “We might not be best friends or nothin', but I thought we had moved on from the silent treatment." 

Din sighed. "Look, Mayfeld-" 

"Migs." 

Din froze. "What?"

"Call me Migs." Din didn't have to look at him to hear his shrug, his clothes rustling distinctively. "Mayfeld died on Morak. But Migs is a common enough name. Best to stick to that until I get a new identity set up." 

"... we're going to Tatooine. Migs." 

"Wait, didn't Fennec say to avoid Tatooine for a while?" 

"If I wanted to settle there," Din corrected lightly, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. Might as well get some shut eye himself. "Not settling. Just going to see an old friend." 

"Oh well in that case-" 

"Migs." He bit out, letting his irritation show through. Migs went quiet. "It is going to be a very long three days if you don't let me sleep." 

"Alright, alright. Duly noted. Bedtime for babies and Mandos, I get it." 

Din refused to laugh. It would just encourage him. Migs finally went blessedly silent, and Din let himself slip into sleep. 

  
  
  
  
  


Din wasn’t a gradual waker. Hadn’t been since he was a small child, the survival instinct drilled into him by his[ Buir](https://www.mandoa.org) and the rest of his [ ori’vode](https://www.mandoa.org) in the Tsad. The first time he woke in the shuttle was no different; one moment, he was drifting in the peaceful nothing that was sleep, the next, he was blinking awake, alert. 

The cabin was dimmer than it had been before, and as he looked around, he realized May- _Migs_ must have dimmed the lights, a human-sized lump on one of the folded out bunks indicating where the man was. He checked the readouts; on course, decent distance traveled, no alerts. All clear. 

He looked down at the vhet’buycika, checking on the kid next, and found Grogu awake, sitting up in the middle of the vhet’buycika and playing with the little silver joystick ball, rolling it from palm to palm with little content coos. His noises must have been what woke him. 

Din smiled. He couldn’t find it in himself to be upset. He settled back in his chair again, just watching. Grogu looked up curiously, blinking up at Din, then smiled and lifted up the ball, offering it to him with a happy little gurgle. 

To think he almost gave this up. He really hadn’t been thinking straight. 

Letting the thought slip away, he instead allowed his attention to be caught by the ball, and thought back to Corvus and Tano, the first time Grogu had managed to take the ball from him. The kid needed training, no two ways about it. But... the Jedi had said his lessons would keep. Grogu was a kid, and would be for a while yet; he didn’t really need anything more advanced than practicing what he already knew, to keep the skills sharp and... mental muscles? He supposed that was accurate enough- trained, maybe some lessons in control. Din could do that much. That sort of thing tended to be pretty universal regardless of the specific skill. 

Just a little bit each day, and at fairly regular intervals, a little bit more. Should be easy enough. He glanced at Migs; a soft snore from the bunk confirmed they were alone for the moment. Gideon eliminated or no, it was probably best to keep Grogu’s powers as secret as possible, even from Migs. He leaned down and took the offered ball, then sat back again, putting about a meeter between their hands. He held out the ball. “Take it,” he instructed Grogu. 

This time Grogu didn’t hesitate, reaching out and grasping at the air slightly; the ball jerked from his fingers, flying to Grogu’s palm in a moment. The kid brightened and giggled, bouncing happily, offering up the ball again; the wordless ‘ _Again!_ ’ clear. Din chuckled and gamely leaned forward to take the ball and repeat the game.

After a few more goes, Din reached back to Grogu, who was offering the ball again, but didn’t lean down to actively take it. Just held his hand out, palm up and slightly cupped. He had seen the kid pull; now to see if he could push. Tano could, the Jedi on the cruiser could; stood to reason Grogu could. 

“Come on,” he encouraged gently, and tapped his own palm. “You do it. Put it right here.” 

Grogu blinked, glancing between the ball and Din’s hand, taking a moment to comprehend the instruction, then frowned cutely, his little face scrunching up in concentration. Slowly, the ball lifted from his hand in a wobbly flight path, angling toward Din, and excitement began to bud in his chest. He was doing it, he was teaching him-! 

The ball abruptly flew forward at speed, missing his hand and cracking loudly against his cuirass. Only decades of reflex training allowed him to catch it as it bounced off. 

Migs made a startled curse, the sound of a blaster charging making Din curse as well. Grogu abruptly began to wail. 

“Stand down!” he barked at Migs, turning to hold out a hand in Migs’ direction and put his body more firmly between Migs and Grogu. Just in case. 

“Mando?” Migs slurred, apparently only half-awake, blaster slowly lowering. “What the crik...?” 

“Sorry,” Din offered, relaxing as Migs did and when the blaster was completely lowered, turning to pick up the still crying kid. “Sorry, kid just decided to throw his toy. Got me in the beskar.” 

Migs groaned and flopped back down. “Get the kid to pipe down, would ya?” 

Satisfied Migs wasn’t about to shoot in a blind panic, Din allowed his attention to focus on the still wailing Grogu, the kid clearly upset by the abrupt and clearly negative reactions. He had done the same when Din swore over him repeating the grabby trick in the Razor Crest; Din supposed it made sense. Kid probably was pretty unused to negative reactions to him using his powers not being dangerous. “Shh, hey,” he soothed, bringing him in close to sit on his lap and gently stroking the top of his head. “It’s alright, it was an accident. No harm done. Just scared Migs.” 

Fortunately, while Grogu was quick to tears, he was also quick to calm back down again, and it was only a minute or two before wails had reduced to soft little sniffles, those even mostly subsiding when Din gave him the ball back. Migs grumbled unintelligibly from his bunk, then turned over judging by the sounds, and in a moment was snoring again. 

Din exhaled, the last of the tension leaving his shoulders. “That was a close one,” he murmured softly to Grogu, just a little playfulness in his tone. Grogu met his eyes solemnly, big eyes still wet and the ball clutched close to his chest, the picture of miserable contrition. “Don't worry about it. There’s going to be a lot of those in your life. Don’t get too caught up in them, hm?” Din lightly tapped his little nose, making him startle and blink, then giggle wetly. Din chuckled. “That was a good first try, though. Right general direction and everything. We just gotta get you a little more... deliberate.” He wrapped his arm more firmly around Grogu, pulling him in to lean against his plackart and cuirass. “All in good time, ad’ika.” 

Grogu looked up at him, big eyes bright and ears perked curiously. “Ah-ah?” 

Din froze, then blinked. It sounded like he was trying to say ‘ad’ika’. Was he at the right age for his species to be starting to talk? Din had no idea. 

Well. Grogu was a kyrbej'ad, after all. Time to treat him like one. 

Slowly, deliberately, he reached up and drew his buy’ce off. Grogu immediately brightened, trying to climb up his chest to get closer to his face. Din chuckled and leaned back in the chair, setting his buy’ce down on the floor within easy reach and reclining almost flat, his hands staying on either side of the kid so he didn’t overbalance and fall off as he clambered up. After a moment, Grogu settled to sit on his chest, a warm weight only barely impeding his breathing, the two of them face to face, little clawed hands patting against his unshaven cheeks. Din offered him a smile.

“That’s right,” he murmured softly. “Ad’ika. That’s you. You’re my ad’ika.” He swallowed, then added, “[ Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad, Grogu. Gar ad be Slaat’taakur. Ner ad’ika. ](https://www.mandoa.org)” 

Grogu cooed inquisitively, his head tilting thoughtfully. Din wondered how much he really understood. 

A little clawed hand tapped his cheek again, Grogu parrotting “Ah-ah?” again. 

“No, I’m not ad’ika,” Din chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m... I’m Buir.” It felt more momentous claiming the title than it really should; the Bes’goran had been the first to say it, all those months ago. Despite the newness, however, it felt... good. Right. He lifted a hand, lightly tapping a fingertip against Grogu’s chest. “Ad’ika,” he said slowly, then tapped himself on the chest. “Buir.” 

Grogu brightened again, this time with comprehension. “Bu!” 

Din grinned. “Yes! Good, that’s good.” 

Grogu wiggled happily. “Bububububu,” he babbled, little hands patting Din’s cheeks. The taps were so light he could barely feel the impact, but he could feel the surprising warmth in those hands. Something soul-deep in him settled and warmed. 

“Don’t worry, kid,” he husked out. “Buir will teach you everything I can, like my Buir taught me, and someday you will teach your ade.” Thinking of Buir... “Starting with this.” 

He closed his eyes, and the familiar words of the[ Taab'echaaj'la'e](https://www.mandoa.org) rolled off his tongue. “ [ Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum ](https://www.mandoa.org). Faye Djarin, Travon Djarin. Varlo Irard...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I make Grogu's first word Daddy in Mando'a? Why yes. Yes I did. You're welcome. 
> 
> Translations (in order of appearance)
> 
> Kyrbej'ad- Foundling.  
> Resol'nare- Creed.  
> Morut- Covert. Lit: haven, stronghold.  
> Verd- Warrior, soldier.  
> Ad'ika- Little one.  
> Jahailir'ade- Child of the Watch  
> Vod'e- Siblings/friends/companions/brother in arms. Gender neutral.  
> Ka'ra- Stars.  
> Beskar- Mandalorian Iron.  
> Tsad- Tribe.  
> Nari Mandokar- This is the Way. Lit: This action is Mandalorian/the epitome of Mandalorian values  
> Bes'goran- Armorer.  
> Mando'ade- Mandalorians.  
> Ade- Children.  
> Verde- Plural of verd.  
> Beskar'gam- Armor.  
> Ori'Haran- Purge. Lit Great Annihilation  
> Alor- Leader. General term of respect for any type of leader, similar to the military 'sir'.  
> Buy'ce- Helmet.  
> Mand'alor- Mandalorian head of state.  
> Mesen'alor- Admiral. Lit: leader of ships.  
> Veht'buycika- Field cradle.  
> Buycika- Cradle.  
> Buir- Father.  
> Ori'vode- Elder siblings/mentors/special or important friends. Gender neutral.  
> Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad, Grogu. Gar ad be Slaat’taakur. Ner ad’ika.- I know your name as my child, Grogu. You are a child of Clan Mudhorn. My child. (First sentence is Mandalorian adoption vow, which is legally binding in Mandalorian law.)  
> Bu- Daddy. Lit diminutive of Buir. Gender neutral.  
> Taab'echaaj'la'e- Litany. Lit: those that are marching far away. Euphemism for the dead.  
> Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum.- I am alive, you are dead, I remember, you are eternal. Mandalorian ode of remembrance and respect for the dead that precedes the litany, and reflects the Mandalorian attitude towards death.


	3. Getting to Know You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning for super brief mention of sex.

When Migs woke the second time, it was much more peaceful than the pants-messingly terrifying experience of being jolted from a nice dream by what sounded like a damn slug-thrower. Turned out the kid had a hell of an arm. Who knew. Mando had to be so proud.

Migs went back to sleep with the sound of Mando soothing the kid in his ears, an altogether unexpected development though it probably shouldn't have been, and that voice that followed him into a new dream. 

This time, he found himself marching into the refinery mess hall again, but this time, when big, panicking brown eyes met his, it wasn't Baston's TK number and a glib excuse that came out. Instead, he heard himself say, flirty, "Hey there, Brown Eyes." 

Dream-Mando blinked, then blushed, only a faint darkening of scruffy, unshaven cheeks, and didn't resist as Migs pushed him against the wall- but it wasn't the wall, they were falling into a bunk, and the armor was gone, just layers of cloth between them, just undershirts, and Migs could feel the heat off Mando’s solid chest against his own- 

Brown eyes- wait, were they green now? Gazed up at him, still full of panic, and it was really throwing off the mood. Migs gently cupped the sides of his face, murmuring soothingly, “Hey, hey, stay with me babe-”

“Red,” Dream-Mando replied in that soothing tone he had just heard directed at the kid. Migs blinked; brown eyes were flickering to green, brown curls to jet black high and tight, and oh _kark_ this was going south quick-

A hand curled around his nape, another around his cock, and maybe it was just because he had no idea what Mando’s actual hands felt like, but they felt like Baston’s-

The dream dissolved and faded, Migs gradually coming back to his surroundings and finding himself curled on a fold-out bunk instead of straddling some weird dream-fusion of his long dead lover and Mando. What in the hells had that been about? Sure, Mando was cute and all under that helmet, in a guy next door puppy dog eyes kinda way, but... 

It must have been because he said Baston's TK number, used his nickname. Damn it all, why did he have to use _Baston’s_ TK number? 

Stupid question. He knew why.

Pushing away the thoughts and memories and weird dreams, he slowly sat up with a groan, blinking away the sand from his vision and glancing around. Mando was exactly where he had left him in the pilot’s seat, potentially still asleep even since the lights were still dim, staring straight ahead into hyperspace, remote and forbidding as always- a bit of a relief after that unsettling dream, honestly. The kid was sitting on the floor, happily munching on what looked like protein cubes as he rolled a little silver ball around on the floor. 

The kid noticed him after a second, huge, luminous brown eyes blinking at him curiously before hauling himself to his feet and picking up the bag of protein cubes, toddling closer. 

Migs offered him a groggy smile. “Hey, kiddo,” he greeted, voice husky with the last dregs of sleep. “I miss anything while I was out?” 

The kid just blinked mutely up at him. 

“Not much of a talker, eh?” he chuckled, swinging his feet off the bunk to sit properly on its edge, stretching. “Takin’ after your old man, I see. I get it.” 

The kid blinked again and offered him the bag of cubes. Migs huffed a laugh and took one. 

“Thanks, kid.” He actually hated protein cubes, but he wasn’t about to refuse and hurt the kid’s feelings. Last thing he needed was Mando on his ass for upsetting the kid. He shoved it in his mouth before he could waffle out of it, resisting the urge to grimace at the bland taste. 

The kid brightened as he accepted the offer, ears perking and seeming pleased. Now that Migs was looking for it, the signs of a baby and not a pet were obvious. He shook his head ruefully. “Hey, look,” he offered sheepishly, “Sorry for calling you a pet, before. And dropping you. No hard feelings, huh?” 

The kid just stared. 

“Sheesh, between the two of you we might be able to scrape together a sentence,” he grumbled good-naturedly. “Are you even old enough to be talking yet? Ah, well. Don’t worry about it, I’ve always been good at entertaining myself.” 

The kid perked up again, like he had an idea this time, and stumbled back to where he had been before, bending to pick up the little silver ball and then toddle back, never releasing his tight grip on the bag. Eyes bright, he offered up the toy to Migs. 

He huffed a genuinely delighted laugh, eyebrows shooting up and grin spreading across his face. “You get more than you let on, huh?” he chuckled, bending down to take the offered ball. “You wanna play catch, then?” He glanced at Mando, who for all intents and purposes seemed to still be asleep, remembering the noise that had catapulted him out of sleep. Probably a bad idea to encourage the kid to be throwing metal things, at least until he could aim. In compromise, he slid off of the bunk, lowering himself smoothly to sit on the floor instead, and rolled the ball across the floor to bump into the hem of the kid’s... robe thing. Mando really needed to get the kid some better fitting clothes. “There you go.” 

The kid’s head tilted, watching the ball roll curiously, like he had been expecting something different and wasn’t quite sure what to make of Migs’ reaction. Probably Mando played with him differently. After a long moment, he sat heavily with a little ‘thump’, then reached down, pushing the ball weakly back. It only rolled a few centimeeters. 

The kid pouted at the ball, and Migs laughed. 

“Here,” he offered, reaching out to pick up the ball again. “Like this.” He gave it a roll, exaggerating his wrist movement in demonstration, sending it the short distance to the kid. This time, he caught it, and sent it back with a clumsy toss. Migs caught it, and luminous dark eyes stared up at him, looking for approval. 

Damn kid had killer puppy eyes. He was going to be a menace when he figured out how to use them effectively. 

“Good job,” Migs obligingly offered, and the kid brightened, wiggling a bit where he sat. He munched another protein cube and held out a hand, making a grasping motion. Migs rolled the ball back. 

They sat like that for a while, rolling the ball back and forth, the kid contentedly snacking on protein cubes while Migs rambled aimlessly to fill the silence. 

“... anyway, long story short, take my advice; never ever buy something you really gotta rely on from some guy with ‘Scumlord’ tattooed across his face.” The kid made an inquisitive, cooing little burble, almost like a question, and Migs decided to treat it like one. Mostly for his own amusement. “I don’t know who would raise the kinda guy that gets a tattoo on his face, kid! I just bought crummy parts off him.” The kid seemed content with that reply, settling back down and munching another cube. 

Migs tilted his head to the side, thoughtfully. “Hey, do you got a name or what? It’s getting awkward just calling you ‘kid’.” 

“Grogu.” 

Both their heads swiveled to the pilot’s chair, but Mando hadn’t moved. Just spoken. “His name is Grogu.” 

Migs gaped at the back of Mando’s helmet. “How long have you been awake?” he demanded. 

Mando shrugged a single shoulder. “Before you woke up.” 

Migs made an affronted squawk. “And you just left me to talk to myself and entertain the kid? I thought you were still asleep!” 

There was a pause, then Mando offered blithely, “You two seemed to be having a riveting conversation. Didn’t want to interrupt.” 

Migs blinked. “... did you just _joke?_ ” 

Mando’s shoulders stiffened. 

Migs huffed an incredulous laugh. “Dank farrik, I didn’t know you had a sense of humor! Wow. A kid, a sense of humor, at least one friend- careful, Mando, people’ll start saying you actually have a _personality._ ” 

That made Mando turn, and Migs could almost swear he sounded _offended_. “I’ve always had a personality.” 

The ginger snorted, rolling the ball back to the kid- _Grogu_ absently. “Sorry to break it to you, Mando, but mysterious murder machine ain’t a personality.” 

“... Can you blame me for being cautious in that company?” 

That brought Migs up short. “Guess not.” He snorted again. “Hey, on that subject, tell me this, I’ve been curious for months now. Did you and Xi’an actually ever...? Or what?” 

Mando sighed and turned forward again. “Are you planning to be this talkative the entire way?” 

“Pretty much,” he shrugged. “Not much else to do, is there? C’mon. You just planning to sit there for three days in silence?” Suddenly curious, he pried, “What do Mandalorians even do to pass the time, anyway?” 

“What do Imperials do?” Mando abruptly bit back, his snappy tone clearly implying he thought Migs was being annoying and he thought that would shut him up. 

Boy was he wrong. 

Without missing a beat, Migs answered. “Work out. Target practice. _Talk._ ” He shrugged. “Plenty of us had hobbies, too. This guy I knew, he was a tattoo artist, and he practically had a small business on his off hours-” 

It was weirdly nice, sitting there playing absently with the kid and talking at Mando. Comfortable, in a way their idle chatter on their way to the prison break job hadn't been. That had just been straight combative, all of them aggressively defining their boundaries with a new team they didn't want to be part of, but he and Mando had apparently gotten all that out of their systems in the transport. This was just... chatting. It had been a while since Migs had just chatted. 

He could do with someone a little more engaging, but a guy couldn't have everything. 

"- man, we'd get into so much trouble, me and TK '43-"

"You talk so easily about them." 

Migs paused, startled at Mando's abrupt but soft interjection. "Huh?" 

Mando's head turned slightly, like he was looking at Migs out of the corner of his eye. Still soft, almost baffled, he elaborated, "About your comrades." His head tilted slightly, thoughtful. "Or were these ones not part of Operation Cinder?" 

_Oh_. Migs' hand clenched on the ball, the back and forth rhythm he and the kid had established stuttering as his mind was abruptly swamped with memories. 

‘43 and ‘89 laughing that they'd see him later. LT ‘67 gruffly ordering him to come back safe. Bastion's last goodbye kiss to his cheek, but they didn't know it was the last one so Migs didn’t even return it-

Grogu made an inquisitive sound, obviously wondering why the fun had stopped, dragging him from the pit of dark memories he usually left alone in the back of his mind and back to the present. Damn it, he was usually better than this at keeping all that at arms’ length. Must have been what happened on Morak, dredging everything up. Had that only been a few days ago? The memories would calm down again with distance. He offered the kid a grateful smile and resumed the game, forcibly shoving the memories away, back into their pit. 

"It's not the good times that hurt to talk about, Mando," he finally offered, forcing artificial levity into his tone. It wasn't quite an answer, but Mando nodded like it was. 

“Do you perform Remembrance for them?” he asked. 

Migs had no clue what Remembrance was, but he decided to focus on something else, desperate to abandon the subject before his thoughts turned really bad. “Hey, not fair,” he protested teasingly. “I’ve answered your question, now it’s your turn to answer one of mine.” 

Once again there was a pause, Mando seeming to think about it, before nodding sharply and swiveling the pilot’s chair to face the rest of the cabin, visor pointed right at Migs. “Alright. That’s fair. Which one?” 

Migs carefully refused to let his jaw drop, making a show of considering instead to cover his shock. Never, in a thousand years, had he ever really expected _Mando_ of all people to engage him. “What do Mandalorians do to pass the time?” he asked after a minute and his brain decided to start working again. A nice neutral question. 

Mando shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. It shouldn’t have been such a quiet gesture for someone wearing so much metal. “Not much spare time in recent years. Always something needing doing. But when we do... train, I guess. Contests. Maintain and improve our equipment.” His hand drifted up from his bicep to reverently touch the decal on his right shoulder. Migs noted the gesture curiously; seemed like the kind of thing one did without quite realizing it. He wondered what it meant. “Some of my comrades, they enjoyed following limmie.” 

Migs couldn’t help a startled laugh. “ _Bolo ball?_ Really?” That was so... _normal._

Mando shrugged. “Do you perform Remembrance?” 

The memories pressed against the edges of their pit again. Migs stubbornly kept his casual smile in place. “Pass.” 

Mando startled. “What?” 

“Pass,” he repeated, snickering at the other man’s reaction. Maybe it was just because he had seen his face, but Mando seemed more... expressive, than he remembered. It was almost cute, and definitely funny. “Give me a different one.” 

There was a calculating pause. Migs let him think. 

"Fine. How did you end up working with Ran?" 

Something in Migs' gut relaxed. Now they were back in safe territory. 

“Actually that was my first job for Ran,” he revealed with a shrug. “I needed creds. An acquaintance of mine introduced us. I already knew I wasn’t going to do another with him before you even came on the scene, though.” He let his nose wrinkle. “Anyone willing to mix business and personal revenge like they did is not someone I want to be partnered with long term.” Shaking his head, he asked, “How about you?” 

Mando thought for a moment, possibly digesting Migs’ answer, before answering, oddly somber. “I was young and stupid and thought the Guild didn’t pay enough.” He looked away, to some point on the floor, and Migs could swear he almost seemed... ashamed. “Ran and Qin and Xi’an seemed... more lucrative. More exciting. And they were.” 

There was definitely a story there. Migs wondered if Mando would tell it if he asked. 

Mando shook his head, like he was banishing memories of his own back to their pit, turning his faceplate back to Migs. “Why did you object to them betraying me?” 

The ginger raised an eyebrow. “You mean why would I object to being used to exact personal revenge in a score I had no idea about and as far as I can tell was some petty banthafodder that had no place on such a high stakes job?” he snarkily threw back. “C’mon, Mando. I’ve got higher standards than that.” 

“Do you?” Mando pressed softly. 

“Damn right!” Migs huffed, just a little offended and willing to overlook the two-parter question to make this point. “Look, I get the keep up or get left behind thing, but intentionally betraying teammates like they wanted to do is bad business. Word gets around that you do that kind of thing and suddenly no one is willing to work with you anymore. Not to mention you mix personal business and work like that and you put everyone’s lives on the line or worse- which, of course, is what crikin’ happened. Besides, it’s just plain _rude_ to betray some guy I don’t even know for no reason _._ ” 

“Why’d you do it, then?”

“I told you, I needed the creds.” Thank all the stars, his debt was probably erased now that he was dead, though. That was an unexpected bonus of being dead he hadn’t considered yet. Shrugging, he rolled the ball back to the kid a final time and hauled himself up. “Ugh. I need kaf. Mando, kaf?” 

“No thanks,” the Mandalorian grunted. Migs rolled his eyes. 

“Oh come on. You’ve gotta eat and drink at some point during this trip. I won’t look, I promise.” 

“... it’s not that.” 

Migs paused in the middle of filling a self-heating thermos with water, confused. “What? If it’s not the face thing, then what is it?” 

The other man shifted in his seat, and Migs realized with distant shock that Mando had just actually _fidgeted._ Sounding like he would rather be doing anything else, Mando admitted reluctantly, “I don’t like kaf.” Slightly more reluctantly, he added, “There’s packets of insta-tea, though. I’ll take that.” 

Migs gaped. 

“What?” Mando snarled defensively. 

Migs held up his free hand in a placating gesture, resuming filling the thermos. “Sorry, sorry, I just... you don’t like _kaf?_ Who the hells doesn’t drink kaf? How do you operate? I basically die without kaf.” A thought occurred to him suddenly. “Are you a stim tabs kinda guy?”

Still defensive, the other man grumbled, “Never developed a taste for it. My father didn’t like it either.” He shrugged. “I manage without just fine.” 

Ho-ly hells. Mando had _drink preferences._ And parents! He hadn’t just sprung, fully formed and beskar clad, from a firefight or some crik. He had been a stupid, cocky teenager once, and lived with regrets because of it, just like everyone else. How in the hells had he managed to turn Migs’ idea of him so thoroughly upside down in less than two minutes? 

“So you prefer tea, then?” At least that explained the lack of caffeine thing. Tea didn’t have as high of a concentration of caffeine as kaf, but it still had a decent amount... 

Mando relaxed a tiny bit and sighed. “Not really. Tea’s still too bitter. If I have the choice, I prefer Hoth Chocolate for a hot drink, but they didn’t have any in the storerooms.” 

Migs very carefully didn’t laugh, but it was an effort. He actually had to bite his tongue. The big, scary murder machine Mandalorian thought kaf tasted gross and preferred _choco._ He would be considering he might have died in the scrap yard and this was a very surreal death hallucination, but even in his most detached hallucinations he couldn’t have come up with _that_. What even was his life anymore?

“What are your plans now?” Mando asked, sounding like he was very eager to leave the subject. Migs couldn’t blame him. 

“Honestly? No idea,” he admitted cheerfully. “Don’t got nothin or nobody to go back to, so I’m pretty much a free agent now. Get a new ident set up? After that, no idea.” He rummaged around, looking for camp mugs in the emergency camping supplies. “What happened to your colors? You were mostly red in the footage Ran showed me.” 

He could hear Mando go still. Danger senses suddenly on high alert, Migs turned back to him, cautiously probing, "Mando...?"

Dangerously soft, he spoke. "Ran had footage of me?" 

Oh. Mando didn't like that. Still cautious, he confirmed, "Yeah. Just Like 30 seconds of you leaving a ship, nothing scandalous." 

Mando seemed to absorb that. Slowly, he relaxed, the taste of danger in the air receding with it and letting Migs breathe again. "Good thing he's dead, then." 

Migs blinked. "You killed him?" 

Mando shook his head, and sounded quietly pleased with himself. "I didn't do anything. But X-wings firing directly into the bay you're standing in are hardly discerning."

Migs couldn't help a snort. This guy. 

Mando shrugged. “Upgraded most of my pieces since Ran saw me last,” Mando revealed, returning to Migs' original question, and this time he sounded proud. “Haven’t had time or materials to repaint, yet.” 

“Really? Paints aren’t that hard to come by.” 

“No, but the proper paint for beskar is,” Mando insisted, nodding in gratitude when Migs handed him a steaming mug of insta-tea. “Most paints flake or peel. The right kind is usually expensive in the Rim...” 

They continued like that, a companionable back and forth of questions while they drank and the kid quietly played with his little ball on the floor still. Migs kept his eyes out on hyperspace, and forced himself not to sneak a peek every time he saw Mando move from the corner of his eye, lifting the helmet just enough to take a sip and then lowering it again. 

A little cooing noise brought their attention back to the kid, finding Grogu standing beside Mando’s chair and staring up at him expectantly. 

Migs raised an eyebrow. Huh. The kid could be quiet when he wanted to be, he had no idea Grogu had even moved. 

“What?” Mando asked. 

The kid held up the bag of protein cubes. It was empty. 

Exasperation tinged Mando’s tone. “You gotta be kidding me. You cannot be hungry _again_.” 

The kid just stared. Migs fought the urge to snigger. 

Mando sighed and stood. “Fine. Migs, you want a ration pack?” 

“Oh sure,” he accepted. “Just get me one that you won’t eat.” 

Migs did not recognize the hand gesture Mando tossed his direction, but he was certain it was rude. This time he gave in and sniggered into his mug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Din: please answer these deep questions that cut right to your soul so I can sneakily determine if I'm at all interested in actually pursuing you as a life partner for real or just let the fact that we’re married by my count die with me
> 
> Migs: what do you mean you don’t drink KAF
> 
> Edited 2/18/21 in response to insightful suggestions and comments from r3zuri and Mythosaur34667. Thank you both for correcting my oversight!


	4. The Tatooine Job

“FIVE?” Migs nearly shrieked. “How in the hells can you know five languages!?” 

Din smirked smugly and let it show in his voice. “I’ve gotten around a bit.” 

“What languages?” Migs demanded curiously. 

“Basic, Huttese, Tusken hand-language, and I can understand a little Ryl, but I can’t speak it.” 

Migs frowned at him. “That’s only four, Mando.” 

Din hesitated a moment. Before, he would have just stayed silent, let Migs interpret his silence how he liked, but... that was before Trask. Before he had bore witness to Bo Katan’s [akaan’ade](https://www.mandoa.org), and how freely Koska spoke. 

Before he decided to name Migs as his exception.

Slowly, softly, feeling like he was betraying something somehow, he offered, “Of course I also speak [Mando’a](https://www.mandoa.org).” 

Migs frowned, his brow furrowing curiously. “That’s Mandalorian, right?” 

Din nodded stiffly. 

“Huh.” 

Migs opened his mouth to say something else, but was interrupted by the computer beeping and announcing flatly, “Hyperspace departure. In. Sixty seconds.” 

Grateful for the distraction, Din turned away from Migs to make sure Grogu was strapped in, and then they were dropping from hyperspace into Tatooine’s space, heading for Mos Eisley. When they had settled in the hangar, Din slung his satchel across his chest, slipping Grogu to sit inside and settling him at his back, just under his cape. He made sure he had all his weapons, then grabbed their kit, hiking it on his shoulder. 

Peli was scowling suspiciously as she approached the ramp, already shouting, “-I don’t deal with your kind-! Mando?” she blinked, startled. “What happened to your Razor Crest?” 

“Got disintegrated,” he replied bluntly. She scoffed. 

“Oh, is that all? You shouldn’t be so rough with your equipment! Ah, nevermind. You never listen to me! Should have expected it sooner or later after you first showed up with more holes than a spoon-thief’s story.” Tucking her thumbs into her belt, she demanded, “I trust the little womp rat is alright?” 

Obligingly, he shifted his satchel around and lifted the flap, displaying his ad. Peli grinned and nearly squealed. “Ohh, there’s the little womp rat!” she cooed, fearlessly reaching in to pick him up, Grogu cooing wordlessly but happily in return, blinking up at her. “Been on a little adventure, huh, little one? Daddy been taking care of you? Are you sure you don’t want to come stay with Peli-? Oh!” She blinked up at the ramp behind Din, brow furrowing. “And who’s this?” 

Din didn’t have to turn around to know who she was talking about. “A traveling companion.” 

“Call me Migs,” the other man spoke up for himself, striding down the ramp. “How you doing?” 

“Is that right?” Peli hummed, her eyes going sharp with calculation and shifting Grogu to her hip. “Well, what can I do you gentlemen for?” 

“We need this shuttle parted out. About how much can we get for it?” he asked. 

Peli tsked, her eyes roving over the vessel professionally and beginning to move around it. “It looks in good enough condition, I guess. Got any heat on it?” 

“Not that I know of,” he replied honestly. 

“Oh, that’s good. Well, if the electronics are in a decent enough condition... 200,000, easy.” She shrugged. “It’ll take a few days to tear it down, though. Maybe a week.” 

“That’s fine,” he nodded. 200,000 wasn’t much, but it was something. Still, he could use those few days to get a little more breathing room. “I need a job, anyway. Can I leave the kid here with you?” 

“Oh, always, Mando!” she grinned down at Grogu, bouncing him a little and making the kid burble happily. “Usual babysitting rates, of course. We always have a grand old time, don’t we, honey? Providing this one doesn’t pull the same shenanigans as the last one you brought around,” she tacked on, jerking her head and narrowing her eyes suspiciously at Migs. 

“The last one?” Migs questioned. 

“He won’t,” Din answered her, ignoring Migs. 

“Well alright, if you say so,” Peli grumbled, giving Migs a final glare before turning to her pit droids. “Hey, let’s get going already! Start tearing it down!” 

Leaving her to her business, confident Grogu and the shuttle were in good hands, Din turned to Migs. “Want to earn half of that 200,000?” he offered. 

Migs flashed him a grin. “Lead the way.” 

Din gestured towards the street. “Head to the cantina, I’ll join you in a bit.” 

“Alright.” 

Migs disappeared into the street, his own kit slung over his shoulder, and Din turned to Peli, who was watching him with a knowing, wry look in her eyes. “What?” he asked, and hoped it wasn’t too defensive. 

“Oh, nothing,” she demurred, shaking her head. “Just you two seem pretty chummy for ‘traveling companions’.” Her head tilted to the side a bit. “Is that the current slang or something? I didn’t take you for the type to dance around it like that, Mando.” 

Din let himself look out to the street, after Migs, and didn’t bother to deny her accusation. “You say you’re a good judge of character. What’s your impression of him?” 

Peli chuckled. “Oh, that one? Is he a talker?” 

Din scoffed. “Understatement.” 

“Ooh, good,” she hummed, and Din faced her again. “Opposites always balance good in a relationship. Not my type, but he’s got a cute little butt.” She winked playfully at him. “Besides, raising little ones on your own is hard, especially in rougher occupations like yours. He seems a decent enough sort. If he wants to stick around, I’d give him a shot, if I were you.” 

Din considered her observations carefully, compared them to his own during the trip. They lined up pretty well. Finally, he nodded, decided. One job, and then he’d decide. “Thank you.” 

Peli waved him off brusquely. “Ah, save it. Just remember my relationship advice is the only thing that’s free around here. Go have fun with your boyfriend.” 

Din marched out of the hangar purposefully. 

  
  
  
  
  


The cantina was busier than it had been the last time Din had been inside, but no less dim and dingy. He scanned the inside, and immediately spotted Migs sitting in a booth with a rough looking Twi’lek and a Wookie, talking animatedly. He frowned. 

Migs noticed him and flashed him a smile, calculation in his eyes making it sharper than the smiles Din had become accustomed to on the shuttle. The other man waved him closer, and Din obligingly approached. 

“-this is the guy I was telling you about,” Din caught the end of Migs’ sentence, the ginger sliding further into the booth in obvious invitation. Din sat beside him stiffly. “Mando, this is Hal and Yuriwakka. They say they’re needing some... muscle.” 

"What's the job?" he asked bluntly, staring down the Twi'lek. The Wookie was bigger, but the Twi'lek looked more unstable. The alien flashing his filed teeth at him, glaring right back, did nothing to revise his assessment. 

“So apparently, these two have a shipment going out over the Dune Sea...” 

As Migs talked, Din let his eyes rove over the pair, gleaning what details he could. His attention was arrested by a tattoo on Hal’s chest, just barely peeking out from the vee of his tunic; simple, small, stark, and unmistakable. 

“... so, what do you say, Mando?” Migs finally finished. 

Din didn’t hesitate. “No.” 

“No?” Migs startled. “Why not? It’s easy money!” 

Din shook his head. “I don’t mess around with escaped slaves. I don’t need to make an enemy of the Hutts.” 

Migs blinked, confused, but the Twi’lek and the Wookie both stiffened incrementally. Migs’ eyes narrowed, obviously catching the reaction. “You implied the cargo was stolen goods.” 

The Twi’lek bared their teeth again, defiant. “They are stolen.” 

“ _ Dank farrik _ ,” Migs hissed, scrubbing a hand over his head frustratedly. “Should have known it was too good to be true-” 

The Wookie made a warbling growl, catching the attention of the rest of them. Din frowned. “What’d he just say?” 

“ _ She _ said,” the Twi’lek snapped, “the Hutts’ reign on Tatooine is coming to an end. There’s less danger than you think.” 

Din sighed and let his tone gentle. “Look. I get it. I bet some of them are your friends, your family, right? But the Hutts control over a hundred worlds, and have influence on a thousand more; to make an enemy of them is to make the whole Outer Rim unsafe for yourself.” He shook his head. “I’ve got family of my own to think of.” 

He stood, Migs standing with him. "We have no allegiance to the Hutts, so don't worry about us giving you away. But that's all we can do to help. Good luck." He turned away, Migs at his side doing the same. 

The Wookie warbled again, and the Twi'lek translated, calling after them, "Hasn't anyone ever helped you and yours, at risk to themselves?" 

Din froze. 

Migs continued on a few more steps before he realized Din wasn't with him anymore, turning back with a confused frown. The frown turned into an exasperated huff. "Oh come on Mando, you're not seriously going to fall for that sob story line-" 

"You don't have to come," he grunted. [Ka'ra](https://www.mandoa.org) knew  _ he _ was already regretting this. He spun on his heel and turned back to the table, marching back over. 

"200,000," he demanded, locking gazes with the Twi'lek. If he was going to do this, he was going to get something out of it. 

"100,000," he countered. 

"200,000 or I walk." 

"We literally do not have that kind of cash in hand. 120,000." 

"120,000," Migs' grumpy and reluctant voice suddenly piping up from his side almost made Din startle, "And you get us a brother-in-law deal on a new ship." 

The pair exchanged a look. Eventually the Wookie said something and nodded. The Twi'lek looked back to them and nodded in turn. 

"Deal." 

  
  
  
  
  


"So how did you know they were escaped slaves?" 

Din didn't let himself look away from alertly scanning the horizon. True night had finally fallen, forcing him to turn on his heat signature filter, turning the whole desert faintly green with occasional patches of orange. Small desert creatures, nothing to be concerned about. He and Migs had a good vantage point up on the top of the large, armored transport, speeding along at a good clip but not so fast that it would draw attention, Din covering their [payt](https://www.mandoa.org), Migs covering their [staabi](https://www.mandoa.org). The desert seemed quiet and calm, but he had learned not to trust the desert. He adjusted his grip on his rifle. 

"Hal has a tattoo," he revealed briskly. "Marked him as a member of the Runaway Underground. Only one kind of 'stolen cargo' someone like that would be moving." 

Migs grunted. "Makes sense." After a beat, he prompted, "Your turn." 

Din blinked. Oh. Were they doing this again? He considered, never letting his gaze stray from the horizon. 

"Why did you turn around and take this job with me?" 

Migs snorted. "It ain't because I think this is a good idea, if that's what you're asking," he grumbled. "You were right, getting mixed up in runaway slaves is a bad idea. But I had already scoped out the cantina, and there weren't any better options. Besides, you and I have gotten out of worse ideas pretty much unscathed." 

Din snorted. 

"Hey, a laugh!" Migs cheered, sounding pleased with himself. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were warming up to me, Mando." 

Din wryly reflected that he was, actually. 

"How you know so much about Tatooine, anyway?" 

Din shrugged. "Been here a few times. Trained in my trade here, with my father. Back before the Guild pulled out." 

"Oh, so these are your old stomping grounds, eh?" 

"Something like that." He hesitated to pose his next question, but eventually slowly forced out, "Back at the cantina, you said 'us'." 

"Huh?" 

"You said get us a deal on a ship." He swallowed dryly. It wasn’t quite a question, but he didn’t know how else to phrase it. 

"Oh. Sorry, didn't mean to invite myself," Migs replied, still casual, but it was the tone Din recognized as his falsely casual one. The one he used when they were on an uncomfortable subject for him. "Didn't even think about it in the moment. I'm sure they can get us two ships." 

Din waited for his next question, but it didn't come. This time, the silence was strained, and for the first time in a long time, he wished he knew what to say to break it. 

But he didn’t. So they just rumbled on through the desert in silence. 

  
  
  
  
  


Against all expectation, Migs turned out to be right. The job was completely uneventful. Quiet, even. Easy money. It was strange after the series of misadventures his life had been lately. 

When they arrived at their destination just before suns rise, a farm in the middle of nowhere on the other side of the Dune Sea, he and Migs climbed down from the top of the boxy transport, catching the briefest glimpse of too young faces set with wide eyes being ushered down into the half buried house. Din’s gut clenched when he realized none of them were older than sixteen. 

Hal, decidedly more relaxed and friendly now, met them, offering them a smile and a small bag that clicked with cred chips. “Thank you,” he offered sincerely. “You don’t know how much this means to us.” 

Din took the bag solemnly. “I do,” he offered in return. “Children are the future.” And these creds would ensure his own [ad’s](https://www.mandoa.org) future. 

Hal blinked, startled, but relaxed again, his smile just a little wider and nodded in agreement. “Children are the future.” 

“Yes, wonderful, glad we’re all feeling nice and warm and fuzzy,” Migs sighed, rolling his eyes, “But about that ship...?” 

Hal nodded briskly. “Right. This is Yulie,” he gestured to a young, dark skinned man emerging from the house, who nodded cordially in greeting. “He has a brother in town who sells ships. He’ll take you to him.” 

“Fantastic,” Migs replied, only half sarcastic, following Yulie to a waiting passenger speeder. “How far is town?” 

“Mos Inego is a few hours away-” 

Din tuned them out, offering Hal a final parting nod that was returned respectfully before following Migs and Yulie, hefting his kit over his shoulder. 

  
  
  
  
  


The suns were high in the sky by the time they were pulling in to Mos Inego, the town about the same size as Mos Espa and just as busy. Everyone was in a rush to get their morning business done before noon hit and the daytime heat truly became unbearable, sending everyone in search of shade and rest. Migs had spent most of the trip napping after having spent all night up on guard, and honestly Din was a bit envious. He was starting to feel exhaustion really weigh on himself, too, but he had never been able to sleep in moving speeders. 

Yulie slowed and stopped in front of a large rolling gate with what looked like a half ship repair and half sale lot beyond, a small shopfront attached. He gestured inside. “That’s the place. Just ask for Ty, and tell him Yu sent you.” 

Din nodded and nudged Migs. The sharpshooter startled awake, blinking and slurring, “Wha...?” 

“We’re here,” he grunted, climbing out of the speeder. “Come on.” 

Migs groaned and dragged himself up and out of the speeder. “Thanks for the ride,” he grumbled, Yulie giving a slight wave and then pulling away. 

Migs rolled his head and shoulders, stretching out the kinks, and groaned again, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, I don't know about you, but I am crikkin' exhausted," Migs sighed, shooting Din a vaguely pleading look. "We know where the place is. Let's find a motel or something and get a nap and shower in before going ship shopping. Never a good idea to make a big purchase half asleep." 

He had a point. Still, Din shook his head. "Waste of creds. We can recuperate on the ship." 

Migs rolled his eyes expansively, throwing up the hand that wasn't full of his kit. "Oh for- take it out of my half, then! My treat. Besides, shouldn't you call the hangar lady and check in on the kiddo?" 

Din still hesitated, the shipyard and the end of their task right there, but Migs wasn't the only one that was exhausted, and now that Migs mentioned it, he probably should check in. Finally, he nodded. "Fine. Out of your share." 

"Thank you!" Migs sighed, half sincere and half sarcastic, and led them deeper into the town. 

  
  
  
  
  


The inn they found was right in that gray area between run down and middle of the road, just enough fray around the edges to not expect much but not enough to worry about parasites in the beds. It was good enough for Din, especially since it also had a holo-terminal in the lobby. 

“One bed or two?” the bored desk clerk asked, eyes flicking lazily between them. 

“Two,” Migs grunted, handing her some credits from the little bag Din had squirreled away in his belt, and the clerk gave them a keystick. 

Din moved to the terminal. “Go on, I’ll be right behind you.” Migs grunted and stumbled down the hall, apparently half-asleep already. 

Din moved to the holo-comm and punched in the code for Peli’s hangar. It rang for a few moments before the comm connected and Peli in blue-tinged holo popped up, grease on her cheek and wiping her hands off on a rag. 

“Motto’s Repair and- oh, Mando!” she warmed a bit when she recognized him. “Not dead yet, then?” 

“Not yet,” he replied wryly. “How’s the kid?” 

“Oh, little womp rat’s fine,” she hummed, shrugging. “Did you want to see him?” 

He nodded slightly. “Please.” 

“Alright, just a second.” She stepped away, and in a moment was back, this time with a familiar small figure on her hip. 

“[Bu](https://www.mandoa.org),” Grogu blurted, ears perking up. It was soft, no louder than his usual murmurs, but clearly discernible. Din felt his shoulders relax a little and a smile form on his mouth. 

“Hey, kid,” he replied. Part of him wished they were alone, so he could reply to him in Mando’a, but he pushed it away. “I’m going to be back soon, ok? Just wanted to check in.” Grogu made a soft mumble in return. 

“How soon is soon?” Peli asked archly, raising an eyebrow. “I’m willing to babysit, but I ain’t a boarding service.” 

“Later this evening,” he assured her. “Just tying up one loose end and we’ll be back.” 

“Alright. See you then, Mando. Say buh-bye, little one!” She waved in demonstration, and Grogu copied her clumsily, little clawed hand flapping at him. Din chuckled and cut the transmission. 

He moved down the hall to their assigned room, slipping into the dim room silently to find Migs already facedown on one of the beds, snoring softly, apparently having merely kicked off his boots, flopped down, and went straight to sleep. 

Din set down his kit and moved towards the unoccupied bed. Might as well catch some rest himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Peli Motto is low key my favorite character in the Mandalorian next to the Armorer and I don't care who knows it.)
> 
> Thank you to everyone that's kudosed/bookmarked/subscribed, and an extra big thank you to everyone that's commented! I've only had this up for 10 days and it's already one of the most popular things I've ever written. This story is coming along a lot faster than I usually do and it's all thanks to all you lovely folks encouraging me! 
> 
> I'm trying to stay as in character as possible for everyone, if any of the characterizations feel off please let me know!
> 
> Translations (in order of appearance)
> 
> Akaan'ade- Army. Lit: Children of War  
> Mando'a- Mandalorian (language)  
> Ka'ra- Stars.  
> Payt- Left (direction).  
> Staabi- Right (direction).  
> Ad- Child.  
> Bu- Daddy. Diminutive of Buir. Gender neutral.


	5. Ship and a Conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief mention of masturbation. (honestly just start assuming any chapter from Migs' POV he's gonna focus on his dick at some point, I dunno how it happened but it is what it is at this point)

Migs woke slowly, drifting out of sleep with a little grumble and a lazy stretch. He squinted in the dim room, looking around, taking a second to remember where he was. 

Right. Motel room. Judging by the relative position of the strip of sunlight allowed in by the shutters, on the other side of noon. He checked the chrono on the bedside table; ah, a nice four-hour power nap. Perfect. 

Glancing to the bed on the other side of the table, he snorted at what he saw. Of crikkin’ course. Mando was sitting on the bed, back and shoulders braced against the wall, arms crossed, legs extended out in front of him and crossed at the ankle, a blaster on his lap. He hadn’t dressed down at all, not even taking off his boots- the housekeeping staff were going to love this guy. Migs wasn’t even sure if he was asleep or not, his head tipped back slightly against the wall, either staring at the ceiling or sleeping; it wasn’t like Migs had been able to ever tell on the ship, and both were equally likely. 

Giving up on trying to puzzle it out, he sat up, started to stretch properly, and called, “Mando.” 

Mando jerked slightly, helmet swiveling sharply to stare at him. Oh, he had been asleep then. Migs offered him an apologetic smile. “Sorry. You need a little longer or you good?” 

Mando sighed, uncrossing his arms and rolling his head, stretching out his own kinks. “Nah, I’m good.” 

Migs nodded, scratching at the back of his neck and grimacing at the tacky feel of his own skin. Ugh. That’s right. He hadn’t had a proper shower in over a week, ever since... since the chop fields, actually. Kriff, hell of a week. They’d been in too much of a rush after Mando and his friends picked him up from Karthon for any sort of downtime, then kriffed off from the cruiser before he could take advantage of any of the amenities there. The shuttle had been too cramped of quarters to do anything more than change his underclothes and spray on some deodorant, even if it had had amenities, which it hadn’t. Combined with Tatooine’s oppressive, omnipresent heat making him pretty much continuously sweat, he was starting to get pretty ripe. 

He had paid for six hours, and they’d only been there four. Might as well as take advantage, the ships weren’t going anywhere. 

His stomach chose then to rumble, reminding him it had also been over twelve hours since he’d last eaten, and he would literally kill for some kaf right now. He glanced at Mando; considering all his layers, he was probably even worse off than himself on the hygiene front. 

Rolling to his feet, he sighed, “Ok, plan of action. I’m gonna go find us some quick food, you take advantage of the ‘fresher shower, when I get back we’ll switch so you can eat without me being in the room, all alive and... seeing-your-face-y, or whatever. Once we're all pretty and refreshed again, we'll go ship shopping. Good?” 

Mando considered for a second, but not long. He nodded. “Good. Your half is on the table.” 

Migs glanced at the small, round table nearly shoved in the corner of the room, spotting the small bag. 

Right. His half. Two ships. They were splitting up after this. Something he refused to call abandonment stuck in his throat, hard and choking. Damn it, this is why he didn’t stick around, ever. It’d been a while since he got attached so quick, granted, but still. 

He grabbed it, swallowing down the feelings. Hoping he sounded normal enough, he said, “Great, be back in a bit.” Mando grunted. 

Migs wandered out onto the street again, squinting against the harsh sunlight and pulling his scarf up over his head as a hood so he didn't get sunburned. Damn his fair skin. The heat was still baking, radiating back up from the ground in literal waves, and it was miserable, but when he glanced up at the sky both the suns were on the descent, so at least it couldn’t get worse. 

He picked one of the various food establishments scattered around, almost at random. It was barely a restraunt, basically a long counter with several heated trays inset into the counter, filled with a variety of dishes, an open kitchen right behind the counter busy with a pair of short-order cooks. Mostly he picked that one because Migs could also smell kaf coming from that one. Kaf wasn’t as common on this planet as Migs would like; it was a good thing he wasn’t staying here. 

The red-skinned near human standing behind the counter smiled at him as he approached, asking him something in what he guessed was Huttese, and he groaned, “Basic, Basic, you know Basic?” She nodded, and Migs sighed in relief. “Great, perfect. Two orders of whatever this is,” he pointed at a large pot of what looked like some kind of red, spicy soup or stew or something, stew was always nice and filling, and cheap, “A big cup of kaf, and... you got anything that’s got caffeine but isn’t bitter?” 

She nodded, chirping, “Yes sir, we have chai. Is that alright?” as she began ladling up some of the red stuff. 

“Sounds great,” he grumbled. Like he knew what chai was. Hopefully Mando would drink it. 

In a few seconds, she had assembled a disposable sack with four covered cups- two red soup, one dark kaf, and one that was a frothy, blue-tinted, milky looking thing with flecks of something that looked kind of like pepper to Migs; he really hoped Mando liked it because it looked gross to Migs- and a small paper bag with a few pieces of flatbread in it. He guessed the bread was included. “Twelve wupiupi,” she chirped. 

He dug into the little bag and counted out twelve of the coins. Her eyes went wide and she reached out, taking only one of the coins from his extended hand and then hurriedly curling his fingers back over the rest. “Are you trying to get robbed?” she whispered. “Put those away!” 

Oh. Whoops. “Sorry, not familiar with the denominations,” he muttered back. “Thanks.” 

She sighed and muttered something in some native language that definitely wasn’t Huttese but Migs didn’t recognize at all. Probably something along the lines of ‘dumb tourist’. She handed him change along with the sack of food; apparently the coins he had were a real big chit. He dropped one big coin into the clay tip jar by her till. “Thanks.” 

Her eyes were still a little wide, but she was also smiling genuinely now. “Thank you, sir! Come again!” 

He tipped his head and picked out the bowl/cup of kaf as he walked out, inhaling the rich goodness with relief. By the time he was walking back into the motel, he felt much better with kaf rushing through his blood and about half of one of the flatbreads in his belly. It’d been a while since he had non processed, real food; he’d forgotten how good fresh bread could taste. 

“Hey, Mando, I got- Whoa!” 

Migs instantly spun on his heel, redirecting himself out of the room and marching straight back out, slamming the door behind himself. He stood in the hall, frozen in shock, staring at the opposite wall. 

He didn’t see a single detail of it. It could have been polka-dotted and bearing a life-size graffiti of the Emperor in a bikini for all he knew. All he could see was broad, pale shoulders, a swathe of lithe back, and damp chocolate curls. 

Apparently Mando had just gotten out of the shower, and hadn’t bothered to finish dressing yet, since he had been standing with his back to the door, only in his boots and undersuit, but the undersuit had been half off, the top half dangling from his hips, and _damn it_ there ought to be a law or something against stupid, apparently sexy Mandos running around half naked like that without warning. 

Soulful, expressive eyes, broad shoulders, could knock him flat on his ass without breaking a sweat. How in the hells was his luck so bad that the Mando he was going to be splitting up from in a few hours was exactly his type? 

The door opened behind him and he whirled, jumping guiltily, fighting the urge to blush like a teenager that had just been caught by their crush doing something embarrassing and probably losing. 

Mando stood there, stiff shouldered and dressed back up. Not fully dressed still, missing most of his armor and accessories, but his undersuit was up and fastened and his helmet was on, so he was decent at least. Without a word, he jerked his head, beckoning Migs in, and retreated back inside. Reluctantly, Migs followed. 

“Sorry-” he began to falter an awkward apology, not quite able to look at Mando. 

“It’s fine,” Mando interrupted him shortly. “You didn’t see my face. Should have remembered you have a key. You got food?” 

Right. He had been doing something before he walked in on Mando. “Um, yeah. Something red, stew I think, or something like that anyway, some kinda flatbread,” he mumbled, setting the sack down on the little table in the corner. “Something called chai? Girl at the counter said it was caffeinated but not bitter, I figured you’d like it.” 

There was an awkward pause before Mando softly offered, “I do, actually.” 

“Great!” Stiffly, he marched over to where he had dropped his kit, beating a hasty retreat. “I’ll just... leave you to it.” Before Migs could say anything else and embarrass himself even more, he was ducking into the ‘fresher and closing the door. 

Migs stared at himself in the mirror, leaning against the sink. He was right, he had definitely lost the battle, faint red clinging to his cheeks. At least it was mostly hidden by his stubble; maybe if Mando asked he would believe it if Migs told him mild UV damage? Stars, he had a talent for showing up at exactly the wrong time. 

Exhaling slowly, he reached into his kit and pulled out his new trim kit with jerky, irritated motions. He neatened his facial hair back down to his signature stubble, then shaved his head down, and sprayed down each of his articles of clothing with spray-fresh and deodorant. Wasn’t quite as good as getting to wash them, but they didn’t have time or facilities for that. Wasn’t the first time, or the last probably, that he’d made do with spray-fresh and deodorant. 

Leaving them to dry on the handy towel rack, he stepped under the water. The water pressure was low, unsurprising considering they were on a desert world and water was probably a pretty limited resource. Still, the water was a pleasant temperature, so Migs leaned against the wall and took a minute to just enjoy it, letting his eyes slip closed. 

Or he would have just enjoyed it, if he didn’t still have visions of sexy Mandos dancing in his head. 

Migs scowled down at his half-hard dick. It remained stubbornly interested. 

He sighed, letting his forehead thump lightly against the wall and closing his eyes again. It had... it had just been a while. Yeah. That’s all this was; he’d had a bit of a dry spell, what with being in prison and all, and he’d been blind-sided with that visual. Totally normal. 

He took himself in hand, keeping his eyes closed, and thought about Baston and their shore leave on Pippip 3. Now that had been a fun week... ah, to be young and in love and athletic...

By the time he was stepping out of the ‘fresher, clean and decidedly less odorous, flashing a casual grin at a fully kitted up again and ready to go Mando, Migs had managed to mostly forget what he had walked in on. 

Or so he told himself, anyway. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Migs followed Mando into a plain looking storefront attached to a ship/junk lot, trusting he had the right one; Migs certainly wasn't sure, he'd practically been asleep on his feet when Yulie dropped them off so his recollection was hazy, but Mando had marched in without hesitation so Migs rolled with it. 

Inside, they were met by an aging but still athletic man, maybe 45, and Migs decided he must still be a bit horny because he couldn't help but notice he was rather attractive. He had always appreciated a strong jawline. 

The man smiled politely. "Good afternoon." 

Mando cut straight to the chase, as usual. "We're looking for Ty. Yu sent us." 

The man straightened a bit, his eyes going sharper, and when he shifted Migs couldn't help but notice the edge of a black tattoo on his forearm, just peeking out from the edge of his rolled sleeve. 

The man offered Mando a hand to shake, his smile a little more genuine. "Ty Knotts. My little brother mentioned you'd be by." To Migs' surprise, Mando actually took the handshake, though he didn't offer a name in return, not even ‘Mando’. The man offered Migs the same smile and handshake. 

"Migs," he introduced himself, flashing Ty a small smile of his own. Curious, he let his index finger trail lingeringly along the inside of Ty's wrist as they disengaged; the older man obviously noticed, but leaned slightly away as he drew his hand back, tucking them both into his pockets. 

Disappointing, but Migs knew when to take a hint. He shrugged slightly. 

Ty inclined his head slightly. "Pleasure. Well, let's get you boys squared away! What you looking for?" 

Mando immediately spoke, brisk and businesslike. If he had noticed the interaction between Migs and Ty, he didn’t indicate it. "Ship. Four seat cockpit, hyperdrive capable, faster the better, minimum 200 cubic meeter cargo hold preferred-" 

Migs let himself fade to the background as Mando went into specifications, following along after them as Ty led him into the yard, nodding along to Mando's list. He'd let Mando pick his first then he'd pick his. 

"... And it has to be off the grid," Mando finally finished. "New Republic and Imperial. Completely clean." Ty flashed him a wry smile. 

"You don't ask for much, do ya?" Ty chuckled. "But I think I got something. Follow me." 

Ty led them to a back corner of the lot, gesturing. “This do it for ya?” 

It was an old 25-Model U-Co; even more of an antique than the Razor Crest had been. The outer hull looked in decent enough condition, for its age, though it was positively filthy and dented in several places. Migs whistled low. “Where’d you find this hunk of junk?” he asked. 

Ty shrugged. “Bought it off some Jawas.” 

Of course. That explained why it was off the grids, at least. 

“I want to look inside,” Mando interjected firmly. 

Ty nodded, pulling out a datapadd. “Be my guest.” He tapped something on the screen, and the ramp lowered. Mando marched inside. Ty glanced at Migs from the corner of his eye, raising a curious eyebrow. “He the one that knows about ships, then?” 

Migs frowned a bit, confused at what Ty was trying to imply, but shrugged. “More than me.” It was true. Migs knew specs, but ask him to identify mechanical issues and he was useless as a Stormtrooper grunt. Ty nodded with a little hum. 

Mando reappeared after only a few moments. “How much?” 

“For you? 100,000.” 

Migs winced. They’d only made 120,000 with that job, and if they were splitting even down the middle... “Sounds a bit out of your price range, Mando.” 

There was a pause for a beat, both Mando and Ty looking at Migs, and then Mando asked, softly, “Could we have a moment to consider, please.” Despite how soft it was and the please, it wasn’t a request. Migs full on frowned, definitely confused now. 

Ty nodded, lifting a hand in a surrendering gesture. “Absolutely. You two take all the time you need. Feel free to start her up too, if ya like. Just don’t take her off the lot. I’ll be in the front office if you need me.” And he was briskly walking away. 

Mando didn’t watch him go, his helmet remaining locked on Migs. Migs resisted the urge to fidget. “What?” 

Mando shifted a bit on his feet, another almost fidget, though he disguised the motion by crossing his arms over his chest. Not quite defensive, but almost. Migs felt his eyes narrow. 

“Do you still have no plans for after this?” Mando asked abruptly. Migs blinked. 

“I mean, not really, why?” he demanded warily. 

Mando nodded, something about him firming, like he had made a decision. “If we pool together we could get it.” 

Migs felt his jaw and the bottom of his stomach drop. 

“If you don’t want to that’s fine-” Mando continued, almost defensive, and Migs realized he had been staring blankly at Mando for almost a full minute. 

“Stop, stop,” he blurted, holding up his hands in a halting gesture, then scrubbing them over his head when Mando did, his helmet tilting a tiny bit, curiously. Migs desperately cast about for words to express the whirling mess that was his head at the moment, that weren’t some combination of ‘yes’, ‘please’, and ‘thank stars’. 

Eventually, he settled on, “I thought you didn’t want me to come with?” 

Mando’s head tilted the other way. “Why would you think that?” 

"You brought it up!" He exclaimed exasperatedly, throwing his hands up. "I thought you were trying to delicately tell me to kriff off!" 

Mando's shoulders hitched, then relaxed, and Migs could swear Mando was laughing at him. Deadpan, he stated, "Migs. If I wanted you to kriff off, I would have just said that." 

"Well why'd you ask, then?" He demanded. 

Mando shrugged. "I wanted to know if you did it purposefully or not." 

Migs exhaled gustily, rolling his eyes. "Alright, aright. Stars forbid you just actually say that, I guess, but I guess I shouldn't have assumed or whatever either, and you're right, you don't really do 'delicate'-"

"Migs. You're rambling." Mando cut him off, but gently, and now Migs was sure he was projecting because he could swear Mando sounded... fond. "Yes or no?" 

"Why?" He asked instead. 

Something about Mando turned... cautious, but he answered. "I need a partner. With the kid... I can't keep leaving him on his own, or with sitters. I need someone to watch my back while I'm watching his." He shrugged, deliberately casual. "I could do worse than you. Besides, I still owe you." 

"You owe me?" Migs scoffed. "Which of us is walking free right now because the other remembered them in the chop fields and convinced a New Republic Marshal to lie for them?" 

"I owe you my life." 

"Oh, we're gonna play debt accounting now, huh? Ok. I owe you my life, twice. Not counting Morak, I don't think either of us should count Morak since we both screwed up and saved each other pretty equal there, so that one cancels out. But you could have killed me on the prison ship, and you didn't, and you didn't have to let me tag along after the Marshal let me go either, you could have just ditched me to die in the jungle. That's two life debts, by my count. Technically I owe you." 

There was a long pause, just enough for Migs to start worrying that maybe he said too much again, but eventually Mando spoke. "I know Xi'an and Ran would have killed me. Burg had no affection for me either. So I know somehow you convinced them to just abandon me instead. That's one." He shifted a tiny bit again, another not quite fidget, and his voice went soft, barely audible. "You helped me rescue my son, without asking for any reward. And then you gave me back my armor." 

Migs stiffened. That was the first time, even obliquely, either of them had even mentioned what went down with Mando's helmet on Morak. Mando plowed on without allowing him a chance to react beyond that, his voice firming again. 

"My child and my armor are, individually, far more important to me than my life. By my count, I owe you."

Migs swallowed thickly. "So... I guess we owe each other."

Mando's head tilted. "I guess so." 

Migs tried not to sound too eager. "Yeah. Yeah, alright." He crossed his arms sternly, frowning at Mando. "We are really going to have to work on your information sharing skills." 

Mando shrugged noncommittally, his arms coming down to tuck his thumbs into his belt instead, in a more casual pose. "So. 100,000 is within our price range." 

Migs took a deep breath, forcing himself to settle and refocus. "Right. Um... Lemme look around inside, too." Just because he didn't know crik about mechanicals didn't mean he didn't have a checklist of his own. 

Mando made a little ushering gesture towards the ramp. Migs marched in. 

  
  
  
  


The suns set was painting Tatooine’s sky in brilliant orange and muted scarlets when Din brought the U-co down in Peli’s hangar, right next to what remained of the Imperial shuttle. She and her droids had been busy; they’d only been gone a little more than a day, but it was down to a skeleton, basically. 

Peli met them at the bottom of the ramp, brightening when she recognized them. “Well took you long enough!” she greeted them gruffly, but Din could see the teasing in her eyes. 

“Couldn’t find upholstery Migs liked,” he dryly replied. 

“Oh har har, fek you too Mando,” Migs huffed, rolling his eyes as he marched past onto flat ground. “The upholstery in this heap is a mess, and so are a dozen other things about it, I do not apologize for pointing out the obvious.” 

“See?” Din offered flatly to Peli. She laughed. 

“Well, glad to see you’re back up on your feet. I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news. Which do ya want first?” 

“Oh, start with the bad,” Migs shrugged. “Makes the good news better.” 

Peli glanced at Din with a raised eyebrow; he nodded in agreement. Without any further preamble, she shrugged and blurted, “You two are stuck here for two weeks.” 

Din’s gut clenched. He could hear how sharp his voice was when he snapped, “What?!” From the corner of his eye, he saw Migs stiffen. 

Peli held up her hand. “I know, I know, sounds bad, but hear me out. The good news is some of the parts in your shuttle there were in _really_ good condition, and a buyer of mine is offering top credit for them. So all told, after my 15%, you’re raking in a cool 360,000 for that shuttle.” 

“How does that translate into us being stuck here for two weeks?” Migs pressed suspiciously. 

“Well, my buyer isn’t a cash up front kinda guy,” she shrugged. “We’ve agreed upon a price, but until he actually gets the parts, he won’t send me the money. Shipping takes two weeks. So unless you’ve got a bank account I can send your money to....” she trailed off meaningfully. 

Din sighed. It was a terrible idea. Awful. Right up there with breaking the Bounty Hunter’s Code and absconding with a target, and he was still dealing with the repercussions from that one. But Migs had been right when he pointed out with Gideon gone, as far as he knew no one was actively looking for him or Grogu anymore. And it would take a little time to give the new ship a once-over and properly stock it. Maybe if they kept their heads down... 

“Alright,” he grumbled, regretting the words even as he said them. “But I’m not paying for a second parking bay.” 

“Oh, come on Mando, be reasonable-!” 

“No no no, as far as I’m concerned I sold the shuttle to you, where you keep it is your business-” 

“[Bu](https://www.mandoa.org)!” 

Both he and Peli halted their light arguing at the soft but excited little exclamation, Din looking down to see Grogu stumbling out of one of the doorways, making a beeline straight for him. He grinned and bent, catching Grogu and lifting him up close to his faceplate, little hands reaching out to tap his buy’ce cheeks as usual. “Hey, kid,” he chuckled, tilting his head forward slightly, Grogu meeting the [kov'nyn](https://www.mandoa.org) halfway with a little ‘thump’. Din felt his grin widen. 

“Well, if that’s that then, I’m going to go scrounge up some food,” Migs announced, making for the corridor out to the street. “Mando, you’re the native. Any recommendations?” 

“Pringby noodle cart,” he offered. 

“Ooo, noodles,” Migs replied, apparently mostly to himself, and he was gone. 

Tucking Grogu against his chest in the crook of his arm, Din looked up at Peli again, finding her smiling wryly. He blushed. “What?” 

“You’re a regular old softie under all that armor, huh?” she chuckled. Din winced, but before he could defend himself, she was moving on. “Should’a known. I take it your boyfriend decided to stick around, then?” 

“Not boyfriend,” he objected without any real heat. At her raised eyebrow, he offered, “Partner.” He often appreciated Basic’s abundance of double entendres, but in this instance, doubly so. 

Peli chuckled and shook her head. “Of course you Mandalorians don’t take it slow.” 

Din shrugged and turned back to the ship, turning his attention to his ad. “[Shekemir, ad’ika](https://www.mandoa.org),” he hummed softly to Grogu, smiling again when big brown eyes turned up to him, curiously. “[Ni tengaanar me’sen.](https://www.mandoa.org)” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Migs this chapter: *abandonment issues panic**gay panic**abandonment issues panic again*
> 
> And if you're wondering, yes, from this point on basically every opportunity Din has he's going to speak to Grogu in nothing but Mando'a. Gotta teach the childrens that heritage pride, after all. 
> 
> Side note: It has come to my attention that some of my readers cannot hover over links to get my translations. Usually I wouldn't worry about it, but since I basically invented several terms to match up with Din's key catchphrases, I will put it to a poll if people would prefer translations at the end of the chapters or a glossary style thing maintained at the end (see my story Dreamweaver for an example of what I mean by that). Sound off in the comments if anyone's got an opinion.
> 
> Edit: Poll is now closed. By overwhelming majority, translations will now be included at the bottom of every chapter. 
> 
> Translations (in order of appearance)
> 
> Bu- Daddy.  
> Kov'nyn- Headbutt. Refers both to the attack and to the affectionate gesture.  
> Shekemir, ad’ika.- Come on, little one.  
> Ni tengaanar me’sen.- I'll show you the ship.


	6. Perceptions #1

Ty Knotts was often annoyed with his younger brother’s attempts to corral his more... flirtatious tendencies. Yu insisted he would flirt with anything that moved; he would always retort that wasn’t true, he only flirted with it if it moved _and_ flirted back. There was no fun in flirting with an unwilling target. Really, he was a grown man, with more than enough experience under his belt to exercise the appropriate amount of discretion. The lack of faith was insulting from someone 15 years his junior. 

So when Yu’s message clearly implied both that the pair of mercenaries his brother was bringing to him were married and he shouldn’t try to flirt with either of them, he was just as annoyed as usual. 

However, when the mercenary pair turned out to be a human that basically propositioned him within the first minute, right in front of a scarily silent moving, clearly armed to the teeth Mandalorian, he quickly revised his position and firmly decided to take Yu’s advice, keeping himself politely professional. Even so, the Mandalorian spoke to him in clipped tones, obviously having noticed Migs’ proposition. Ty really hoped it turned out this was one of the more reasonable Mandalorians. His worry only grew when Migs pretty much disengaged from the conversation entirely, then didn’t even go to look around the ship. In Ty’s experience, even if one’s spouse wasn’t planning to ride the bantha often themselves, and didn’t know frak about bantha, they would still at least want to check if the coat was a color they liked. 

When the Mandalorian asked Ty to excuse them, tension and unspoken words clearly simmering between the pair, Ty did not hesitate to beat a hasty retreat. 

He had honestly not expected to end up in the middle of a Mandalorian lover’s quarrel when he got up that morning, yet here he was. Ty hoped it didn’t end in property damage. 

The pair reentered his office about 20 minutes later, the tension gone and a more relaxed set to both of their shoulders, despite the non-armored one ranting about the state of the cabins (“The upholstery is completely trashed-!” “You know, I can fix most of this myself.” “Shut up, Mando, you’re not helping-!”). He very carefully did not speculate about what they might have done in said cabins, and closed the deal with as much speed as he could reasonably get away with, without seeming rude. Thankfully the human didn’t try to flirt with him again, apparently done with whatever jealousy game he had been playing with the Mandalorian. 

As he watched the U-co take off from the lot, disappearing into the horizon, Ty finally allowed himself to relax with a long exhale. Some couples just enjoyed a different kind of flirting, he supposed. 

He made a mental note to send his brother a gift basket or something, and put the encounter out of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief little snippet inspired by a comment asking about why they keep getting pegged as a couple. Probably going to become a thing in this fic, seeing Migs and Din from the outside just for funsies. We'll see how it goes.
> 
> (Gasp turns out not everything's about Migs and Din)


	7. Stars Shining Bright Above You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italiscised text is Huttese.

The U-Co was, despite Migs’ complaining, a good ship. The weapons and shields weren’t anything to fawn over, but they could be upgraded. Although it was larger, its cargo hold was a little smaller than the Razor Crest’s had been, and the cockpit was cramped for the number of seats, but there was still plenty of room for the carbonite setup Din wanted to install, and overall it made up for its more cramped feel with a more powerful, less leaky, hyperdrive and the more advanced crew quarters. Unlike the Crest, which had maximized cargo space at the expense of everything else, the U-Co was more designed for crew and speed, designed to accommodate a crew of six, so for the three of them it was actually rather roomy, with two distinct cabins in addition to a pilot and co-pilot bunk in the cockpit, a small galley, and a shared but distinct refresher. The 'fresher even had a lock. Considering there were three of them in there now, and Din wasn’t sure anymore when, if ever, they’d be settling again, he thought it wise. At minimum, Grogu would need privacy for continuing his training, and well, he would like to take off his [buy’ce ](https://www.mandoa.org/) _some_ of the time. 

Despite it being a larger resource dump than the Crest, he wasn’t even worried about keeping it fueled. Between him and Migs, he was sure they could keep the chit box from running dry. Wasn’t like every spare cred was going to the [morut](https://www.mandoa.org/) anymore, but that was a train of thought he didn't want to focus on. 

Didn’t mean it was pretty, though. Between him and Peli, he was certain it was space worthy, the two of them giving it a near total overhaul since they had the time and creds, but Migs hadn’t been wrong in his observations. The upholstery really did look like someone smeared [gihaal](https://www.mandoa.org/) over the seats and let a pack of feral lothcats have at it, everything needed cleaning, there were interior panels missing, the hull was pitted and scarred, and the cabins were depressingly bare. The stacked bunk compartments, two to a cabin, didn’t even have cots, just bare slabs of metal, like prison cells. Grogu was fine after Din set up his [buycika](https://www.mandoa.org/) duffel in the lower bunk of the cabin he had claimed as his, drawing the privacy curtain halfway to make him a cozy little hidey-hole. Din was used to roughing it and could have made it work, the Razor Crest had hardly been a Core hotel and the morut had been too poor for many comforts, but that didn’t mean he was ignorant of the rough edges. 

Migs, on the other hand, took one look at the bunks and declared he was going shopping. Migs was, by his own admission, useless with a spanner, so he occupied himself with supplying and furnishing the ship while Din and Peli worked. 

The three of them settled into a comfortable sort of routine, similar to their time on the shuttle. Din and Grogu would wake first, Migs not being an early riser, and Din would prepare breakfast rations for the three of them, leaving Migs' in the warm-unit. Once they had eaten, he would go join Peli- the woman seemed to sleep even less than he, always up and working before he managed to get out there- and work on the day's repairs to the U-Co. Peli would often be called away to deal with other customers or projects, but she allowed Din free reign over her tools and he focused on taking full advantage, learning his new ship as thoroughly as he had known the Crest. Migs would stumble out of his cabin later in the morning, mindlessly inhale his food and some instant kaf half-asleep, but was wide awake by the time he was starting on his second cup, then spend the day "upgrading" various sections of the ship Din had already completed repairs on. Mornings, he would spend at the market, then he would return at noon with his purchases and lunch, endearing himself to Peli by always remembering to bring her something, too. Afternoons, he would spend "squaring away" the purchases, and by the time the suns light was fading, prompting Din to retire to the ship, Migs would be setting out dinner, usually in the midst of a spirited one-sided conversation with Grogu. Near as Din could tell, Grogu had yet to attempt to speak to Migs, merely making his usual soft coos and murmurs, but Migs talked to him anyway. 

Din was pleasantly surprised when Migs asked for Grogu's carrying satchel and took him along on his trips to the market, muttering about keeping the kid out from underfoot. Grogu was pretty good at staying out of the way and didn’t really need that close of watching, but it soothed Din to know someone had eyes on the kid, so he didn’t discourage it. Din watched them from the corner of his eye, an unexpected but warm sense of satisfaction curling in his chest as he watched his partner wander in and out, chattering aimlessly at his ad, Grogu curiously watching the world from under the flap. 

Migs’ purchases, on the other hand, evoked decidedly less warm feelings. 

“What do we need this for?” he exclaimed exasperatedly, holding up the vaguely familiar, shiny contraption that had been part of Migs’ latest excursion. Today was apparently the day Migs had picked to 'square away' the galley, and the contraption was merely one of many new additions.

“ _That,_ you ignorant nerf-herder, is a top of the line Henningtay express kaf maker,” Migs sniffed, snatching it back from Din and returning it to the spot he had picked for it on their tiny countertop. “And yes, I do need it. Just because you are an uncultured plebeian doesn’t mean I have to suffer.” 

“How much did you pay for it?” he asked warily, already dreading the answer. 

“None of your business, it came out of my half,” he huffed, crossing his arms defensively. 

“Too much, then,” Din growled in frustration. “You are _hemorrhaging_ credits-” 

“Oh for kriff’s sake, Mando, would you relax?” Migs scowled, rolling his eyes. “I’m not spending money I don’t have. We’re not scrounging for food or fuel or necessities. I can afford to get myself some nice things. I don’t often get nice things.” 

“Then you know how to live without them.” 

Migs scoffed. “Just because I _can_ live without them doesn’t mean I _wanna._ ”

“We should conserve creds-” 

“What is the point of saving every damn credit?!” Migs burst, throwing up his hands. 

“To be prepared!” Din shot back, equally frustrated. 

“Oh please, if everyone only bought absolute necessities at all times, the economy would collapse,” Migs scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Besides, you can’t ever be prepared for _everything,_ no matter how much money you save. And who knows? You can always keel over tomorrow, or get robbed, or- heh- maybe _arrested,_ without warning! Completely out of the black! And then you’re back at square one without even the memory of nice stuff. Unless you’re incapable of earning more, or saving for something specific, it’s better to spend the chit and make yourself a little bit happier or more comfortable now, than save everything for some nebulous contingency plan. Who knows when you might have the opportunity again?” 

Din growled. “It’s still wasteful.” 

Migs scowled. “Meeting my own dietary preferences isn’t _waste._ Neither is making my own ship comfortable, or-” Migs paused, a thought apparently occurring to him, making him abruptly inquire incredulously, “Is that why the kid is still running around in that robe thing?” 

Din stiffened at the implied judgement in his voice and didn’t say anything. Regardless, Migs sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. In a resigned grumble, he ordered, “Get your wallet. We’re going shopping.” 

Miffed, Din protested, “I was going to tune the ansible relays-” 

“The relays can wait, Mando,” he snapped, lifting his head to lightly glare at Din. “I've lost count of how many times he's almost tripped on that thing. Were you just going to let him run around in it until it fell apart? You were, weren't you? Dank farrik." 

"I was going to hem it," Din half-heartedly defended himself. 

"With what needle?" Migs shot back, rolling his eyes and marching past. Din reluctantly followed. "Kiddo! Where are ya? Ah, there you are." He bent and picked up the satchel from where he had tossed it aside carelessly on top of the little fold-down table in their galley earlier, sliding it over his head. Grogu perked up, big green ears and brown eyes popping out curiously from his bunk in Din’s cabin, where he had apparently been holed up. Excitedly, he came out and stumbled towards Migs when he saw Migs with the satchel, apparently recognizing what the satchel meant. 

Din winced when Grogu nearly tripped in his excitement, barely catching and righting himself before finally making it to Migs’ waiting hands. The sharpshooter shot him a pointed look, the ‘See?!’ practically audible as he straightened, then tucked Grogu away in the satchel with practiced ease. 

“Come on, Green Bean,” he murmured to the kid, “I think we’ve let your daddy procrastinate long enough, hm? Let’s get you some proper gear- Huh?” His gaze focused on the bunk where Grogu had been as he turned to go out to the ramp, making him pause and then level a glare at Din again. “Let me guess. That’s all he needs for toys, too, huh?” 

Din followed his line of sight. In the dim little bunk, he could just barely pick out- but sharpshooter eyes probably had no trouble making out- laying on the blanket that was lining the rest of the unused bunk to make it a somewhat soft play space, the little silver ball and a play board he had cobbled together out of spare bits he had found around Peli’s shop. Differently colored wires, anchored to the board at one end with a variety of different connectors at the other ends, that one was supposed to match up to the correct ports along the top. Modular, of course, so the [adiik](https://www.mandoa.org/) was constantly challenged and could passively learn different connector types, practice matching them. Such toys had been common in the morut, and he was rather proud of it. Grogu at least had seemed to enjoy it, happily occupied for hours on end with it. 

When he didn’t answer, Migs rolled his eyes again and marched purposefully towards the ramp. “What are you, a damn _monk?_ C’mon, kid. Let’s get you really set up.” 

Din sighed and followed them. 

  
  
  
  
  


Migs led him with unerring accuracy through the market, apparently very familiar with it by now, and Din followed along. Something in his chest relaxed when he realized Migs was taking them to a second-hand store, not one of the boutiques. 

Migs marched in, and immediately headed for a section to the right, with bright primary colors. Din grimaced but followed. He didn’t understand why the entire galaxy apparently thought ‘for a child’ meant ‘make it garish’. Migs took Grogu straight to a small section of toys in various states of repair, Grogu making a happy squeal as he was removed from the satchel to be placed down among the toys and immediately beginning to root around. Din raised an eyebrow. “You do this a lot with him?” 

“Hm?” Migs looked up from the stack of children’s shirts he was beginning to flip through, taking a second to re-focus on Din. “Oh. Yeah. It’s the easiest way to keep kids from grabbing stuff in the store, leave ‘em in the toy section.” He picked out a few things, holding them up individually and squinting, looking back and forth between the garment and Grogu measuringly before throwing it back. “Ugh, no use. He’s just too small. Gonna have to go to the literal baby clothes, unless he wants to try out shirt-dresses.” 

Din huffed, not wanting to validate Migs with an actual laugh but not quite able to stay silent either and moved towards a different section entirely. He was vaguely aware of Migs following him curiously, but didn’t acknowledge it. 

“Flight suits?” Migs piped up when he saw what Din was looking through, sounding bewildered. “Not that I don’t think you can find one small enough, which I do, but Mando, they’re pricer than the kids’ clothes-?” 

“They’re also sturdier, and more versatile,” he rebutted shortly. “Small species exist. I can find some close enough and alter them to fit.” 

“He’s gonna outgrow them too fast to justify the pricetags and alterations. Kids grow like crazy.” 

“Not that one.” Din stiffened at the same time Migs did, as surprised at his own looseness as Migs was by his answer. 

“What the hell do you mean?” Migs asked cautiously. Din sighed. 

Softly, so they wouldn’t be overheard, warily glancing around, he answered, “His species is... long lived. I think. He’s already 50. It’ll take him a while to outgrow anything. Might as well make it last.” 

There was a long, tense stretch of silence, and then Migs was right next to him, intense gaze boring into the side of Din’s buy’ce. “You _think?_ Mando, what the hell species is he?” he hissed. 

Din sighed. “I don’t _know_ , Migs.” he admitted through gritted teeth. He didn’t want to admit anything about Grogu, not until he was certain Migs could be really _trusted,_ but he had a point. Small children usually did grow quickly. He would have noticed sooner or later on his own, and the question would have been no less awkward a year down the line. 

Migs’ head turned, and Din followed his line of sight. Grogu was right where they had left him, cooing happily as he stacked little blocks, the paint chipped and corners worn. Din glanced to Migs, the other man’s face still pinched in shock, thoughts clearly racing behind his eyes, but slowly relaxing as he visibility accepted the new information. Finally, he snorted and shook his head, turning back to the rack and beginning to look too. “Dank farrik. When Peli said you had no idea what you were doing, I didn’t think she was being _literal,_ ” he grumbled. 

Din felt his shoulders relax, not able to stop the soft, relieved laugh this time. “Sorry,” he offered. Migs waved it away. 

“50, huh?” he mused thoughtfully. “You realize that means he’s older than us both, right? Kriff, he’s older than the Empire. He might’ve been born in the Old Republic.” 

Din looked at him, confused. “I was born in the Old Republic. Weren’t you?” He had thought Migs was about the same age as himself. 

The other man snorted. “None of the Republics have ever had any real hold out here in the Outer Rim, you know that, Mando. Only thing that’s ever changed out here is the flags waving over the invaders.” 

That was true enough, Din supposed. Even as a small child, during the Clone Wars, he had barely seen any difference between what was technically Republic space and the rest of the Outer Rim, much less the Empire and the Rim. Suddenly curious, he asked, “How do you know so much about kids?” The Empire had hardly been the most nurturing environment. 

Migs shrugged. “I was an orphan, grew up in a group home. When it’s 50 kids and four adults that have been at that sort of thing too long, the kids always end up kinda raising each other. You pick shit up.” He picked something off a rack, holding it up for Din to see. “This too big?” 

“Yes.” 

“Figures.” He put it back and continued to look. “Where’d you learn to do alterations? Doesn’t seem very Mando-like,” he asked. 

Ah, this again. Din felt his shoulders relax a little more and turned back to the racks. “In my Tribe, we had to make full use of every resource. Including clothing. Altering clothing to use again is something all children are- were taught,” he corrected himself, feeling a lump form in his throat at the reminder. Pushing it down, he added, “I was taught by one of my mentors.” 

“One?” Migs pressed, something sharp in his tone. Din shrugged. 

“Why’d you join the Imperial Army?” he asked instead of answering. 

Migs shrugged again, deliberately nonchalant. “I was tired of sleeping on the street.” Without meeting Din’s startled look in his direction, he immediately shot back, “Where’d you get the ship, then? The Razor Crest, I mean.” 

Deciding to leave it alone, Din turned back to the clothing in front of him. “It was my Father’s.” Of course there was more to it than that, but it was true. 

“I assume he’s not around anymore?” 

“No.” The admission still caused a dull ache of longing in his chest, but it was much more bearable than the more recent wound of the morut. He pulled a tiny little flightsuit from the rack, visually estimating its size and quality, eventually nodding in approval. “See if you can find a few more like this.” Migs glanced at the garment in his hands, then nodded, and the subject was thankfully dropped. 

Eventually, both he and Migs- mostly Migs, really- were satisfied with the small pile of clothing, bedding, and other small comforts they had dug up from the depths of the shop, even a small sewing kit so Din could make his alterations. It wasn’t even all for Grogu; Migs had found a standard wide bunk cot that didn’t smell too bad and convinced him to get it, some bedding, and a few replacement [kute](https://www.mandoa.org/) for himself. Din would have also liked to get himself some maintenance gear for his [beskar’gam](https://www.mandoa.org/) and weapons, all of his [besbe](https://www.mandoa.org/) were in need of a serious go-over at this point, but he didn’t expect to find anything like that in a generic secondhand shop like this. They circled back to where they had left Grogu, and Din could have swore. 

Grogu had found a lamp of some kind, shaped like a square column, giving off a soft, muted light, filtered through a kind of liquid light diffuser. Inside the liquid, gleaming reddish-orange globes of... something floated, drifting lazily up and down in some slow, gentle circulation. They looked kind of like the frog lady’s eggs had looked in their carrying container, and judging by Grogu’s wide, enraptured eyes, he was thinking the same thing. What was with this [ad](https://www.mandoa.org/) and his obsession with round, shiny, mouthful-sized objects?!

“Oh, that’s neat!” Migs exclaimed, bending to take a closer look with Grogu. Grogu perked up, turning wide eyes on Migs and pointing at the lamp, several shelves above his head. “Yeah, I see it. Good find, Green Bean. Wanna have a closer look?” Before Din could protest, Migs had bent and picked Grogu up, bringing him closer, Grogu making an enthusiastic coo, reaching out to touch it. 

Din jerked, heart in his throat, when Grogu snatched his little hand back with a cry from the surface of the lamp. Migs winced, swiftly tilting the half of his body with Grogu on it away from the shelf. Frowning inquisitively, he reached out to touch it himself, and hissed, snatching his hand back. “Oh. Ouch. Yeah, it’s very cool, but I don’t think your daddy would let me get you something that gets that hot.” Grogu sniffled, staring at the lamp with betrayed longing. 

Curious himself, Din stepped closer, and touched the surface too. He could actually feel the heat through his gloves, which meant it was very hot indeed. He gave a thoughtful hum. 

“Oh it only gets that hot if it’s left on too long,” a sales girl piped up, approaching them eagerly. “It cools very quickly when it’s turned off, see?” she turned a small switch, the light disappearing, and the globes all immediately beginning to sink and conglomerate into a single mass. Grogu made a sound of distress. 

“The light inside is powerful enough that it warms the liquids,” she explained, tapping on the glass surface with a nail, “Which causes the thicker liquid to heat and separate and float, but when it cools at the top, sink again, causing a cyclical motion. They’re very common to place in children’s rooms, as a kind of nightlight, due to their soft light and the soothing visual.” 

Interesting. His main concern had been Grogu attempting to get inside and eat the globes, but if they were only in an appealing state to him when it was too hot to touch, then... 

Migs raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Really? You’re really thinking about letting him have it?” 

“I was concerned about him trying to eat what’s inside,” he grunted. “But if it’s too hot for him to touch... maybe it’ll teach him some caution and restraint.” He shrugged. “If you want to get it for him. I’m not going to waste the creds.” 

“Impossible for him to get into it, anyway,” the girl offered. “The container is sealed shut. He would have to shatter the glass, and I think it’s too heavy for someone his size to move.” 

Din bit back a snort of laughter. Too heavy? Nothing was too heavy for his ad. But... 

He didn’t look away from Migs. “Like I said. If you want.” 

Migs rolled his eyes expansively and frowned down at Grogu. “I see your daddy is being a cheapskate. Again. Don’t worry, little buddy, I gotcha covered.” He picked up the now cool lamp and handed it to the sales girl, who brightened. 

“Very good, sir. Can I take the rest of your purchases as well?” she gestured to the hover-cart. 

“Oh, the cart is his,” Migs waved a hand dismissively at Din. “Separate accounts. But hang on a second.” He turned back to the toys and Din resisted the urge to groan. If Migs noticed his exasperation, he gave no indication, grinning at Grogu instead. “Ok, Green Bean. This is it. You can pick _one_ thing to take home.” Grogu perked, surprised but interested. Migs nodded solemnly. “Yep. Just _one._ It’s a big decision, I get it-” 

Migs startled to a stop when Grogu swiftly wiggled down from his arm, darting forward purposefully, and Migs chuckled. “-or not.” 

Din watched Grogu move and wished he could laugh too, but all he could feel was guilt curdling in his gut. He knew Grogu was too young to understand thriftiness, or planning ahead, even if he explained them to him, but he had also thought Grogu too young to think he was being denied anything, or feel neglected. Apparently he was wrong. 

Grogu trotted back triumphantly, holding up, of all things, a stuffed doll that looked like a frog. It was worn, the fabric faded, and already missing one gleaming button eye, one of the seams popped and needing repaired, but Grogu held it out to Migs with hope in his big eyes. 

Migs didn’t even hesitate, leaning down to pick Grogu up again. “Hey, that’s cute! I like a guy that knows what he likes. Alright, you got it, Green Bean. One cool lamp and one froggy, coming right up.” And he was turning towards the counter where the sales girl waited with a bright smile. 

Din shook his head with a sigh. Migs was going to spoil the kid. Somehow, the thought wasn’t as sour as it probably should have been. 

He grabbed the handle of the hovercart and followed them to the checkout. 

Two more second-hand stores, three pawn shops, a blaster store, and a tiny store where a small, spindly alien with long, deft fingers took measurements of Grogu’s little feet for a pair of custom boots- really the only brand new thing Din could justify getting for him, the quality of an [akaan’ade](https://www.mandoa.org/) boots could determine the outcome of a war- it was nearly dinnertime, Din had run out of patience three stops ago, and they were finally headed back to Peli’s hangar. He glanced down at Grogu, the satchel having been relocated to his own shoulder at some point; his [ad’ika](https://www.mandoa.org/) was clearly flagging too, big eyes slightly narrowed and big ears drooping, the tone of his murmurs trending more and more disgruntled than curious. 

Migs looked between them and snickered. “Aw, looks like Mandos and babies need a nap.” 

“We should have been done an hour ago,” Din snapped, in no mood for Migs’ mocking. Migs waved a dismissive hand in his direction. 

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s just grab something for dinner, I don’t wanna cook tonight. Pringby noodles?” 

“Fine,” Din grit out. It was on the way. 

When they finally reentered the hangar, many credits lighter but many packages heavier, Peli raised an eyebrow. “I wondered where you boys got off to,” she grumbled. “Hey, any of those noodles for me?” 

“Naturally,” Migs hummed, offering her one of the disposable, covered bowls. She grinned and accepted it, the two starting a casual exchange, while Din marched straight into the U-Co. He let Grogu down gently, then dumped the various packages and parcels and bags on the tiny floor of their shared cabin with momentary relief. [Ka’ra](https://www.mandoa.org/), it looked like even more piled in the tiny cabin. For a long moment, he stared at the heap of stuff, already fiercely regretting letting Migs bully him into buying so much. He could swear the pouch he kept his creds in felt noticeably lighter. 

“Hey, Mando.” Din turned and leaned out of the doorway, looking towards the voice. Migs was setting out the food on the tiny galley table, Grogu’s ears just barely peeking out over the back of the booth bench. Migs met his eyes with amusement and held out the bowl of noodles Din had picked. “Eat first. Deal with the stuff after food.” 

His stomach growled. With as much dignity as he could muster, Din took the bowl, and retreated to his cabin. 

  
  
  
  
  


Loathe as he was to admit it, as he dressed Grogu for the first time in the little burgundy kute he had just finished alterations on and set him on his own feet to stumble around, testing his new mobility, bright brown eyes and little clawed hands examining the new garment curiously, Din had to admit Migs was right. 

The new additions to their cabin went a long way to making it feel more like _home_ than a temporary solution. Especially for Grogu, his ad’ika squealing happily when he explored his new bunk. Din had replaced the duffel with a round, soft cushion, a pillow on him but a full size bed on Grogu, supplemented with the gray blanket from the shuttle and another blanket Grogu had spotted in the second second-hand store and Migs had gotten for him, this one fuzzy and a dingy cream color. The duffel buycika was carefully packed away for use in the future if needed. In the open half of Grogu’s bunk he had replaced the blanket lining the floor with a small, woven rug with a geometric pattern worked into it, his toys gathered in a little box to keep it neat- there were quite a few now, since Migs had bought him one thing at each second hand store- and the little lamp tucked into the back corner, casting a soothing reddish light over the space. 

Din chuckled, leaving Grogu to settle in and picking up Grogu’s old clothes- he was reasonably sure it had been someone’s coat once, actually- turning to tuck it away in the second storage compartment, where Grogu’s [veht’buycika](https://www.mandoa.org/) and other kute and other odds and ends were already stored. He paused when Grogu made a noise of protest, turning back to him in surprise. Grogu pouted up at him, big eyes pleading, the little silver ball clutched in one hand, the other reaching out to the coat. 

Din frowned, looking between the coat and Grogu. Hadn’t they just established...? Cautiously, he tried to put it back on him, over the kute, but that just got another indignant noise of protest. Din felt his frown deepen. Grogu wanted it, but not as it was... 

Well. He did say he was going to hem it. 

Migs made a noise of exasperated protest when he wandered out of the ship with the satchel over his shoulder and saw Grogu, still swimming in brown, the next morning, turning a scowl on Din. “What happened to the alterations?!” 

Din rolled his eyes and caught Grogu’s attention, nudging him to his feet and murmuring too soft for Migs to hear, “[Slanar](https://www.mandoa.org/),” giving him a little push in Migs’ direction. Grogu toddled towards Migs, cooing happily in greeting and lifting his hands to be picked up, incidentally showing off his new capelet. The coat hadn’t been hard to modify, Din mostly just cutting away material and adjusting seams so it was more of a poncho than a coat, open and roomy, hanging a little past Grogu’s knees now instead of to the ground, no longer hampering his movement, but if he crouched or sat still covered all of him. Using the extra material he had cut off, he had also added a little pouch style pocket to the front, and a hood to the back, improving its usability. Grogu had been pleased with it when he presented it to him that morning, and Din had pretended not to notice the kid squirrel away the silver ball in the pocket to carry around. A little defiance and sneaking was to be encouraged, after all. 

Migs picked him up, expression going curious, then sheepish. “Oh.” 

Din snorted, turning back to the wiring he was mending. “Open your eyes, hm, sharpshooter?” 

“Oh, har har,” Migs scoffed dryly, tucking Grogu away in the satchel. “Fek you too, Mando. Hey, is the bag heavier than it was yesterday, or is that just me?” 

“It’s not you,” he grunted. “That’s what the armor panels I picked up yesterday were for.” He had seen the lightweight armor panels in the pawn shop, meant for lining a professional case or something of the sort to protect what was inside, and figured if they were going to continue using the satchel as Grogu’s [birikad](https://www.mandoa.org/), he should probably make it a little more skirmish-proof. Just to be on the safe side, considering their lifestyle. The panels wouldn’t turn away more than a single direct blastershot, but the armor-lined satchel would now easily protect from blades, most low powered projectiles, shrapnel, and most other debris. It wasn’t as armored as the repulsorlift cradle had been, but it was better than nothing.

“Makes sense,” Migs hummed. “Crik, you’re a busy bee when you’ve got a project to work on, huh? Well, put a pause on whatever you’re doing there. Kiddo’s new shoes should be ready. Let’s go get ‘em.” 

Din nodded, finishing the wire he had his hands on and then replacing the panel. “Yeah, alright.” 

The market was as busy as it had been yesterday, but the tiny shop that smelled like leatheris and polish was cool and quiet, like Din remembered. The spindly alien from before was still there, smiling in recognition when they noticed them. 

Without fanfare, they produced a small box, and from inside the box, a tiny pair of dark leatheris boots. Din placed Grogu to sit on the counter, carefully strapping them onto tiny clawed feet, making sure they fit properly. Grogu frowned at them, stumbling more than usual when Din lifted him to his feet, clearly unused to moving in footwear. He clung unsteadily to Din’s arm, shooting him a miffed, almost insulted look. Din chuckled. Migs snickered too, scooping Grogu up to return him to the birikad. “Don’t worry Green Bean, you’ll get used to ‘em.” Grogu’s little furrowed pout clearly communicated his doubt on that count. 

After leaving the shop, they didn’t go directly back to the hangar, Migs leading him to another store instead. Din frowned when they entered a mechanical repair shop, tools and materials of all kinds lining the walls. “Why are we here?” he asked. 

“I was gonna bring you here yesterday, but you and Green Bean called it quits early,” Din huffed and rolled his eyes. Migs snickered. “I asked around a little bit ago, and the locals say if there’s paint suitable for [beskar](https://www.mandoa.org/) on planet, it’ll be here.” 

Oh. _Oh._

“Why?” he asked, maybe a little sharper than he had meant, but he didn’t retract it. Migs shrugged. 

“The beskar silver is striking and all, but it’s eye catching. Should probably get you a little less flashy. Besides, I gotta admit I miss your colors.” Without waiting for Din to reply, he finished approaching a counter and asked the human standing behind it, “‘Scuse me, we’re looking for paint you can use on beskar.” 

The teenling raised a bored eyebrow. “What kind is that?” 

Migs turned expectant eyes on him. Din swallowed, and found his eyes drawn to Grogu. 

“Thin, lightweight blend polyurethane enamel or epoxy paint,” he offered softly. “Spacecraft grade. Heat resistant, if possible.” 

The teenling’s eyebrow lowered and he nodded. “Yeah, we’ve got stuff like that. That shelf over there will have all our options.” He pointed, and Din went to the indicated shelf. He stared at the available colors, comparing labels, and carefully considered. 

He didn’t know anymore if this was true for all [Mando’ade](https://www.mandoa.org/), but in his [Tsad](https://www.mandoa.org/), colors had meaning. Muted blue and black had been the most common, dusty reds the next. Blue for justice and honor, black for reliability, red for endurance. Other colors had been used, but those were the most common. His [Buir](https://www.mandoa.org/) had worn blue and black. Din had chosen red before, partly because it blended with the desert of Tatooine well, but if he was being completely honest, when he first sprayed the color onto his first real piece of beskar, he had done so with the faces of Faye and Travon Djarin, the red clothes of Aq Vetina, in his mind. 

His fingers, slowly training along the canisters, paused. Red. He took it, a canister of black, and after a long moment of hesitation, a small canister of white. Nearby was displayed painting equipment; he selected a reasonably priced spray applicator, a cleaning kit for the applicator, some fine grit sandpaper, solvent, and a fine applicator brush. Not looking at Migs, he brought the items to the counter, the bored teenling ringing them up and packaging them efficiently. 

“So what colors you get? Red again, huh?” Migs commented as they left the shop, Din leading the way now and making straight for the hangar. 

“Yes,” he replied shortly, making it clear he was not inviting any further questioning. 

“Touchy,” Migs huffed, only to pause, attention caught by something. Din tried not to groan and failed, continuing to march on without him. Honestly, the man was worse than Grogu sometimes. “Whatever you just saw, I don’t want to look at it-” 

“But Mando, look!” Migs darted away, only to reappear a moment later at his side again, matching his stride and holding out a small advertisement. “We’ve basically got the ship as good as it’s gonna get at this point, and we’ve still got a couple days until Peli pays us. This could be a fun little field trip.” 

Din sighed and looked, only to immediately scoff. A ‘Dune Sea tour’ that, judging by the map, didn’t even actually touch the Sea proper. “Tourist trap,” he grunted, shaking his head no. “An actual, literal waste of creds. I could show you the sights of the Dune Sea better than that.” 

“So why don’t you?” Migs shrugged, tossing the advertisement in a garbage heap as they passed. “Could be fun.” 

Din sighed. He just wanted to go back to the ship. “Sure. Fine.” 

“Really?” Migs’ head tilted curiously. “What’s even out there to see?” 

“Honestly, not much unless you like rock formations,” Din grunted. “Tatooine only really has one ‘sight’ to see that isn’t actively trying to kill you, and you barely have to leave the settlements to see it.” 

“What is it?” Migs pried, starting to sound frustrated. Din smirked. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise,” he deadpanned. Migs made a squawk of indignant frustration and Din snickered. Now that he was thinking about it, though, it was a good idea. Migs was right, the U-Co was basically as good as it was going to get unless he wanted to completely tear out and upgrade some of the systems, he was just tweaking at this point. It was probably a good idea to give it a short test run- like a quick jaunt out into the Sea. Now that he was thinking about it, he was pretty sure it was even the perfect time of year to show Migs and Grogu what he wanted to show them... he looked around, and quickly spotted a likely candidate who would know for certain. Migs startled when he abruptly paused, crouching down beside a bowed, weathered old woman sitting on a stoop. In Huttese, he asked respectfully, “ _Tell me, Elder. What form and path do the Brothers take tonight?_ ” 

Milky eyes turned to him, and the old woman offered him a toothless smile. “ _Such nice manners on an outsider,_ ” she chuckled in a raspy, desert wind voice. “ _The First Brother will hide tonight, and the Second and Third will only show themselves a short time, not long after their Sisters have gone to bed. The Second will show only a sliver, the Third nearly three quarters of its face. Much of the night will be dark. The darkest night is upon us, in only a month’s time. A treacherous, treacherous time, child_ ,” she warned him. 

The warning was superstitious drivel, but Din nodded in acknowledgement all the same, pressing a small coin into her gnarled hand. It was the answer he needed. “ _Don’t worry. I am a Krayt Slayer._ ” She startled, eyes going wide, and he nodded. “ _Thank you_.” 

She blinked, then offered him another toothless smile. “ _Waters cross your path, child_.” 

“ _And yours._ ” He straightened, turning back to his companions and resuming their journey back to Peli’s hangar. Migs fell in beside him again, Din able to feel his bewildered, curious stare even through the beskar of his buy’ce. 

“Um, what was that?” Migs demanded after a long moment and it became clear Din was not planning to offer anything. 

“Weather forecast in Huttese,” he replied blithely. 

Migs scoffed. “Obtuse bastard,” he grumbled. Din smirked. 

  
  
  
  
  


The U-Co handled well, even better than on the trip from Mos Inego to Mos Eisley now that Din had worked most of its kinks out. He had to admit the seats were much nicer too, now that Migs had covered the ruined upholstery with seat covers. The child restraint system semi-permanently installed on one of the chairs, which Grogu was currently strapped into, was also a nice touch. At least kept him from touching buttons he wasn’t supposed to. 

He scoped out the Dune Sea as they flew over it, low, but not so low that they could potentially have something decide to try to swipe it out of the sky. The late hour drew long shadows, the suns set painting the desert in the bolder shades of evening. 

“Wow. It’s brown.” Migs commented from the co-pilot’s seat, sounding bored. 

“Yep,” Din agreed. He had warned him. 

They finally found a mesa of striated orange and red rock, rising up from the dunes. An island in the Sea. Din set down upon it, nodding in satisfaction at the smooth landing. 

“So what’s there to see here?” Migs asked, sounding distinctly unimpressed. “Looks like all there is is sand.” 

“And you wanted to pay to see it,” Din couldn’t help quipping flatly. Shutdown completed, he stood and turned to Grogu- he sighed. He picked up the boots Grogu had kicked off, slipping them back on and tightening them down patiently, ignoring Grogu’s whine of protest. Once the boots were on, he released Grogu from his restraints, picking him up and tucking him into the cradle of his elbow. Heading to the ladder, he tossed over his shoulder, “Don’t you know deserts come alive at night, sharpshooter?" 

“Why the hells would I know that?!” Migs shot back. “I’m not a biome expert!” Din ignored him and climbed up into the cargo hold. 

Once outside in the fading light, he set Grogu down, allowing him to explore. He did a cursory sweep of the mesa, not expecting to see anything worrisome and finding nothing, but keeping half an eye on Grogu so he didn’t do anything stupid like wander over the edge. He was pretty sure even a baby sorcerer wouldn’t survive that. Migs joined them after a bit, still huffing in an unimpressed manner. When the suns finally began to truly set, dipping below the horizon, Din picked Grogu up, interrupting his curious examination of a shiny black shelled arachnid that Din was fairly sure was venomous anyway, and tucked him into the birikad securely, beckoning Migs to follow. A short burst from his jetpack put him on top of the U-Co, metal still warm from the heat of the suns. 

“Oi, not all of us have jetpacks, wiseass!” Migs’ disgruntled shout came from below. Din snickered and turned, leaning down to offer him a hand. Migs eyed it warily but took it, allowing Din to haul him up. Even on the flat surface of the top, Migs wobbled, frowning. “Do we have to be up here?” he asked, only a plaintive hint to his voice betraying his discomfort. 

“I thought snipers liked perches,” he mused, sitting down and pulling Grogu back out, settling him on his lap, his ad looking around curiously at the new view. 

“I acknowledge they’re _useful_ , I never said I liked ‘em,” Migs grumbled, but settled next to Din anyway. “Why are we up here, anyway?” 

“This is going to be the best vantage point,” he answered vaguely. Migs hummed. Partly from boredom, partly curious, Din asked, starting up their game again with just a hint of lilt to his voice, “Green Bean?” 

“Oh you liked that, huh?” Migs laughed, leaning back on his hands and crossing his ankles in a casual pose. “I dunno, it just kinda came to me. Fits, though, don’t it? He’s a little green bean.” He offered Grogu a smile that his ad cooed in response to before going back to contentedly playing with the little silver ball he had produced from his pocket. Migs chucked and asked, “So you trained here, huh? With your dad? What was that like?” 

Din considered for a long moment, but finally replied softly, “The desert is a harsh, but fair teacher. It scours you down to your core, leaves nothing soft if you don’t take care to protect it. Ruthlessly shows you where you’re weak, and humbles you. But it leaves you stronger for the knowing.” He gazed out to the darkening horizon. “There isn’t much beauty in the desert. But there’s wisdom in the sand.” He shrugged, looking down at his ad. “It’s a singular experience. When he’s older, I’ll bring him here, so he can learn for himself.” 

“Huh,” Migs mused. “You got a little poet in you, Mando.” 

Din shrugged. “What was your home planet like?” 

Migs scoffed. “Nothing like Mandalore, I’ll tell you that much. Miserable moon stripped bare by the Mining Guild a generation before, everyone was packed into this big domed city. Spaceport was the only thing keeping the place going. Dunno if it’s even still around, I left when I joined up and haven’t been back since.” Din hummed thoughtfully in acknowledgement. “Are you really in a cult?” 

Din sighed. He considered not answering, and maybe it was the falling dark that gave him courage, reminding him of the removed-from-reality dimness of the shuttle in hyperspace, making everything almost otherworldly, but he managed to answer, admitting to another living being for the first time, “I don’t know.” 

Migs scoffed. “Oh come on, Mando. If you don’t want to answer, fine, just pass-” 

“I’m serious.” His clipped, frustrated tone must have alerted Migs to how serious he was, making the sharpshooter fall silent. An anticipatory, prompting kind of silence. Din swallowed, his mouth feeling dry, but forced himself to speak. “I was- I was raised off Mandalore. I never actually set foot on the planet’s surface. Only Concordia, the moon, and then only once, in passing, as a small child.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, looking anywhere but Migs or Grogu. “In my Tribe, we all followed the Code. I thought all Mandalorians were taught and lived by the same Code. Bo Katan was the first to claim otherwise. After the Great Purge, I wasn’t even sure there were other Mandalorians out there, and now...” He sighed. “Now there’s no one I trust enough to ask.” 

“No one?” Migs pressed incredulously. “What about your Tribe? What happened to them?” 

Din’s throat went tight, but he spoke. “They covered my retreat from the Empire and Gideon, and paid the price.” 

Migs went still beside him. Softly, he faltered, “They’re all...?” 

Din nodded, husking out, “If any of them survive, I don’t know where they are.” 

“Kriff.” 

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant call of an animal- red-breasted common bird, he recognized the chittering call absently- and the whispers of the wind and shifting sands below. 

Grogu made a cautious, inquiring murmur, clearly sensing the melancholy mood. Din absently stroked his head, reassuring him. Reminded of the question that had been lingering at the edges of his mind for a few days now, though, he finally turned back to Migs- or at least his silhouette. 

“Why have you been helping me with Grogu?” The ship, he understood; it was half Migs’, no matter what metric you used, and Migs had shown no hurry to leave the ship. Of course he wanted to customize it his way. But taking Grogu along, completely unprompted... 

Migs stilled again, but answered after a long moment, soft and slow. “I guess I felt kinda... responsible. Preventing the Jedi from taking him and all that, keeping him in your custody.” He shrugged, stiffly, just barely visible in the light of the rising moons. “Besides, you’re my partner now, and you were struggling with something I knew how to do a little better. If you were trying to calibrate a sniper scope I knew better than you did, I’d offer my help with that too. Helping out with Green Bean ain’t any different. But uh, hey Mando.” he leaned forward, suddenly a bit more serious. “I’ll be honest, I’m kinda crik at telling when I’ve worn out my welcome sometimes, so if I’m overstepping or anything, just let me know, yeah? I’ll back off.” 

Din couldn’t help the soft huff of laughter that escaped him, feeling some of the tension in his shoulders ease a little. He looked down to Grogu. “Don’t worry. I’ve been informed I can get... I think the term Cara used is ‘like a mother rancor’.” He shrugged. “You’ll know.” Worst case scenario, if Migs ever really crossed a line, he could just hand him his 50,000 stake in the ship and leave him at a fuel stop. But...

They weren’t three out of three yet. Not by a long shot. But Din could see it happening. They weren’t quite sharing all yet, but... they had now shared more than he had with anyone ever before. Even Omera. At the very least, apparently they were raising a warrior together, if Din let him. 

Migs snickered, and the tension eased a little more. “Yeah, I can see it. When Burg got into your weapons cupboard and found Green Bean, those were the only points I felt like we actually got under your skin at all. ‘Territorial mother rancor’ sums it up pretty well.” He paused, then asked, almost hesitant, “Why don’t you ever pass a question?” 

Because I’m trying, Din thought. “Pass.” 

Migs huffed. “Wiseass.” Din couldn’t help a soft snicker. “Alright, fine. You really like that chai stuff?” Incredulity bled into his voice. 

Gratitude for the more casual line of questioning blooming in his chest, Din nodded. “It’s not my favorite, but it’s better than kaf.” 

“Ok, we seriously gotta talk about your attitude towards kaf-” 

They continued like that through the moons rise and set, trading light hearted inquiries and sarcastic, teasing answers, occasionally pausing for Din to identify and explain the call of a wild animal or other natural phenomena for Migs and Grogu as the desert came truly alive in the cool hours of the night. 

Eventually, Migs asked, “So, Mando. Wildlife tour is cool and all, I guess, but I still have no idea why we’re out here.” 

Din glanced up at the sky. As clear as it was going to get. Casually, he reached back and uncoupled his jetpack, setting it aside, and ignoring Migs’ startled noise, lay back, settling into a full recline, arm behind his head, Grogu laid out similarly on his chest with a curious little burble. He pointed at the sky, and softly murmured, “Look.” 

Migs leaned his head back and did. “Whoa.” 

A moonless night on Tatooine, Din had found, was like no other. The atmosphere was unusually clear thanks to its lack of extensive development, the lack of polution and precipitation making every night cloudless, and out in the desert proper, far from any sort of settlement, there was no light pollution at all either. Combined with the lack of any high geological formations to obstruct the view even a little, especially when up on a high perch like they were, and no moons to distract either, the night sky stretched over the desert in an unbroken, unobstructed bowl, filling the field of vision completely. Everywhere you looked, an uncountable number of stars stretched from horizon to horizon, swirling in eternal, cosmic whorls. It was one thing to know all those factors dimmed the stars, even on clear nights on other planets, to know they were always there but you never really saw them all, but quite another to actually bear witness to the difference, the darkness allowing their true glory to shine forth. 

It was on Tatooine Din had first understood why it was said [Taab'echaaj'la'e](https://www.mandoa.org/) became [ka’ra](https://www.mandoa.org/). 

Slowly, Migs settled on his back beside Din, their shoulders nearly touching. In a hushed tone, he murmured, “Now that is a sight to see.” Din hummed in agreement. He couldn’t quite see it properly with buy’ce up, the visor cutting off the edges of his peripherals, but he knew what it looked like. “You know any of the constellations?” 

Din nodded and pointed. “That one there, is the Well. Follow it, and it will always bring you due north. That one is the Womp Rat, said by the Sand People to have been thrown there by the Great Krayt herself, and it is too cowardly to come down again-” 

He told the bits and scraps of lore he had learned a lifetime ago at his Buir’s side, stories largely devoid of context but immortalized in the stars anyway, Migs and Grogu listening quietly, and it was the nearest thing to [Jatne Manda](https://www.mandoa.org/) Din had experienced in a long time. 

A soft snore beside him prompted him to pause and look at Migs; it was hard to tell in the dark, but flipping to his night vision filter allowed him to see the sharpshooter had fallen asleep, eyes closed and breath even. He glanced down at Grogu; unlike Migs, he was still wide awake, staring up at the sky as he chewed thoughtfully on his little ball. 

Shooting Migs a last, wary glance, just to be sure, Din slipped off his buy’ce, allowing himself to drink in the view unfiltered. Grogu noticed, twisting and crawling up to sit on his chest and face him, even though he probably couldn’t actually see Din’s face in the dark. Or maybe he could, large pupils like his could indicate good low-light vision. Regardless, Din smiled at him, then indicated the stars above again. “Ka’ra,” he pronounced slowly when Grogu looked. “[Vaii Taab'echaaj'la'e slanar. Te Ani’la Mand’alor ogir. An Mand’alor’e bal ba’aliit. Ner ba’buir’e ogir. Alorir an Mando’ade teh Manda](https://www.mandoa.org/).” He swallowed thickly, and vowed, “[Ni ven’slanar ash’amur. Darasuum, ni alorir gar teh Manda. Haa’taylir ka’ra, ni bal gar tome. Haat, ijaa, haa’it, ad’ika.](https://www.mandoa.org/)” 

It wasn’t a revolutionary vow. It was implied, even, in the usual [adiirok](https://www.mandoa.org/), the promise of the cycle continuing regardless of death. His own Buir had made the same vow. But with a child that would so clearly outlive him, by so much, it felt more... poignant. Din had a sudden, fleeting thought of someday, some centuries future, a full grown Grogu, sitting on a mesa much like this one, in the same ageless desert, staring up at the same stars, and remembering this night, wondering if Din was still watching over him among the Ka’ra. Perhaps he would have an ad of his own with him, and tell them in the same hushed murmurs, in the same language, the same vow and stories. Like his [Din’Buir](https://www.mandoa.org/) before him. 

Grogu murmured, softly, curiously, and once again Din wondered how much he really understood. No matter; he would keep the vow anyway. Settling back again, he turned his own eyes back to the ka'ra, and began to tell him the ancient stories of the Ka’ra, letting the cycle turn. 

  
  
  
  
  


“-and take out 200 for the parking bay. That comes to a grand total of 345,750 peggat,” Peli finished with a showy, sarcastic flourish. “Split two ways, that’s 175,875 each.” She held out two small pouches, heavy with creds. 

Din took one with a shallow nod, tucking it away into his belt, already adjusting his mental ledger and calculating how far he could make it stretch. 

Migs took his more enthusiastically, grinning as he glanced inside. “Pleasure doing business with you, Ma’am,” he chuckled. 

“Oh pleasure was all mine,” she drawled, viciously sarcastic as she rolled her eyes, but the grin the two shared was one of shared teasing. Din smiled wryly; he was probably going to regret allowing that alliance to form in the future. 

Peli shook her head, continuing on in her usual brusque manner. “You boys take care out there. Galaxy’s getting more and more unstable all the time, it seems like. Even here.” A shadow of worry passed over her flinty brown eyes. 

Din paused. “How do you mean?” 

She huffed. “You didn’t hear it from me, but I heard down the grapevine that Fortuna was killed a few days ago. Whole Hutt Cartel is gearing up for war. It ain’t gonna be pretty.” 

Din met Migs’ equally surprised eyes. “Killed? By who?” 

Peli shrugged. “I dunno, some upstart called Fett, apparently. Came outta nowhere, it sounds like. Not that I’d know, you understand? You didn’t hear nothing from me.” 

Migs muttered under his breath, something that sounded vaguely like ‘So that’s what Fennec was talking about’, spinning on his heel to stalk away, looking around attentively and calling for Grogu. Din couldn’t help but agree. They needed to get out of here, [jiila](https://www.mandoa.org/). 

“Thank you,” he offered her, sincerely. 

She waved it away. “Like I said, you didn’t hear nothing from me. Just a sentimental old lady wishing some good customers safe travels.” 

“Sure.” He let his own wry amusement show in his voice. Peli flashed him a smirk and a wink. 

“-Green Bean, c’mon- oh, there you... are...” Migs trailed off, then abruptly erupted into snorting laughter. Din turned toward him, tilting his head inquisitively. 

Migs met his gaze, clutching his sides and tears welling in his eyes. Choked with laughter, all he could do was point. Warily, Din advanced to look. Irritation suddenly surged through him. 

Grogu was sitting in between some crates, beaming widely, and doing his absolute best to appear as cute and innocent as possible. Like if Din was distracted enough, he wouldn’t notice the tiny pair of custom leatheris boots, sitting behind him in the dust, decidedly not on little clawed feet where they belonged and covered in gnawing bitemarks. 

Undoubtedly he had been hoping to distract them enough to abandon them here. 

“I just bought those!” he couldn’t help but growl. Migs merely laughed harder. Grogu cooed, blinking innocently. 

“Looks like- like Mando and the Boots, zero, Green Bean one!” Migs managed to gasp out between cackles. Din glared at him. 

“Don’t encourage him,” he grunted irritably, bending to scoop up his ad in one hand and pick up the boots in the other. He could probably repair them. “Come on. Let’s go.” 

Migs trotted after him into the U-Co, still snickering, only pausing to offer Peli a little two-finger salute of parting, and they were leaving Tatooine behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are finally off Tatooine! I had a couple other thoughts for this chapter, but it was already getting long, and I needed to get Din off Tatooine before this became a different story altogether. (Also, we see you over there, Boba. Your shenaniganery is not unnoticed.)
> 
> There are two kinds of poor; those that have anxiety attacks at the thought of spending money on anything but rice and beans, regardless of how much they happen to have at the time, and those that the second they have the bills covered go ‘eh, I don’t need it, but YOLO. 5 bucks won’t change my fortunes either way. Treat yo self.’ Din is the former. Migs is the latter. They find a compromise in Space Goodwills. (You think you've seen some quality Dad'ing out of Migs? I'll show you some quality dad'ing.)
> 
> Yes, Grogu discovered lava lamps. He thinks they're fucking fantastic, and shoes are less so. I make no apologies. 
> 
> Also, I am the kind of lame that makes their own damn fanart. Take a gander if you wanna see Grogu's new outfit. [https://www.deviantart.com/bookboy42/art/Grogu-New-Duds-870408843]
> 
> Translations (in order of appearance) 
> 
> Buyce- Helmet.  
> Morut- Covert.  
> Gihaal- Mandalorian fish-meal. Common field ration, known for its strong odor and long shelf life.  
> Buycika- Cradle.  
> Adiik- Child; specifically infant or toddler, between the ages of newborn and 3 or developmental equivalent. Baby.  
> Kute- Undersuit. General term for any clothing worn under armor.  
> Beskar'gam- Armor.  
> Besbe- Kit. Slang term referring to a Mandalorian's standard gear, including both armor and weapons.  
> Ad- Child.  
> Akaan'ade- Army.  
> Ad'ika- Little one.  
> Ka'ra- Stars.  
> Vhet'buycika- Field cradle.  
> Slanar- Go on. Lit: Go.  
> Birikad- Baby carrying harness.  
> Beskar- Mandalorian iron.  
> Mando'ade- Mandalorians.  
> Tsad- Tribe.  
> Buir- Father.  
> Taab'echaaj'la'e- Those that have marched away.  
> Jatne manda- Good mood, contentment. Complex sense of being one with your clan and life.  
> Ka'ra. Vaii...- The Stars. Where all those that have marched away have gone. Mand'alor the Ultimate is there. All the Mand'alors and our ancestors are there. Your grandparents are there. Guiding all of us from the Manda.  
> Ni ven'slanar...- I will go there when I die. Always, I will guide you from the Manda, too. Look at the stars, and you and I will be together. I promise, little one.  
> Adiirok- Mandalorian adoption vow.  
> Din'Buir- Father Din. Buir being gender neutral, Mandalorians distinguish between parents by adding the first sylable of their name to Buir as a prefix.  
> Jiila- Immediately.


End file.
